LIBRARY 

OF   THK 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

Class 


THE  POEMS  OF  RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER 


THE  POEMS 

OF 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER 


OF  THE 

f   UNIVERSITY  ) 

OF 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

ftjtcrs'iDe  press  CamfanDoe 
1908 


COPYRIGHT   1875,  1878,    I8SO,    1885,   1887,   »89I,   1893,   1894,    1895,   1896, 
1897,    1898,  1900,  1901,  1905,  1907,  1908,  BY  RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER 

ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  October  iqo8 


CONTENTS 


THE  NEW   DAY 

PRELUDE 3 

PART   I 

I  —  SONNET 4 

II  —  SONNET 4 

III— "A  BARREN  STRETCH  THAT  SLANTS  TO  THE  SALT 

SEA'S  GRAY" 5 

IV  —  HESITATION.     (A  Portrait) 5 

V  —  LOVE  GROWN  BOLD .  6 

INTERLUDE .    .  6 

PART    II 

I  — WORDS  WITHOUT  SONG *    .  7 

II— THE  TRAVELER .    *    .  7 

III — "COME  TO  ME  YE  WHO  SUFFER" 8 

IV  — WRITTEN  ON  A  FLY-LEAF  OF  ''SHAKESPEARE'S 

SONNETS"        9 

V  —  "AND  WERE  THAT  BEST1." 9 

VI— "THERE  is  NOTHING  NEW  UNDER  THE  SUN"  .    .  10 

VII  — LOVE'S  CRUELTY n 

INTERLUDE u 

PART    III 

I— "THE  PALLID  WATCHER  OF  THE  EASTERN  SKIES "  12 

II — "MY  LOVE  FOR  THEE  DOTH  MARCH  LIKE  ARMED 

MEN" 12 

III  — "WHAT  WOULD  I  SAVE  THEE  FROM?"  ....  13 

IV  —  "WHAT  WOULD  I  WIN  THEE  TO?" 13 

V — "I  WILL  BE  BRAVE  FOR  THEE" 14 

VI  — "  LOVE  ME  NOT,  LOVE,  FOR  THAT  I  FIRST  LOVED 

THEE" 14 


176724 


VI  CONTENTS 

VII  —  BODY  AND  SOUL  :  — 

I  —  "O    THOU    MY  LOVE,  LOVE   FIRST    MY 

LONELY  SOUL!" 15 

II  —  "BUT,  LOVE,  FORME  THY  BODY  WAS 

THE  FIRST" 15 

VIII  — "THY  LOVER,  LOVE,  WOULD  HAVE  SOME 

NOBLER  WAY" 16 

IX  —  LOVE'S  JEALOUSY 16 

X  — LOVE'S  MONOTONE 17 

XI  — "ONCE  ONLY" 17 

XII  — DENIAL        . 18 

XIII  —  "ONCE  WHEN  WE  WALKED  WITHIN  A  SUM 

MER  FIELD" 18 

XIV  —  SONG:  "I  LOVE  HER  GENTLE  FOREHEAD".  19 
XV  — LISTENING  TO  Music 19 

XVI  — "A  SONG  OF  THE  MAIDEN  MORN"    .      .      .      .  2O 

XVII  —  WORDS  IN  ABSENCE 20 

XVIII  — SONG:  "THE  BIRDS  WERE  SINGING"   ...  21 

XIX  —  THISTLE  -DOWN 21 

XX  —  "  O  SWEET  WILD  ROSES  THAT  BUD  AND  BLOW !  "  22 

XXI  — THE  RIVER 22 

XXII  —  THE  LOVER'S  LORD  AND  MASTER  ....  23 

XXIII  —  SONG:  "MY  LOVE  GREW" 23 

XXIV  —  "ANIGHT  OF  STARS  AND  DREAMS"     ...  24 
XXV  — A  BIRTHDAY  SONG 24 

XXVI  — "WHAT  CAN  LOVE  DO  FOR  THEE,  LOVE?"  .  25 

XXVII  — "THE  SMILE  OF  HER  I  LOVE" 25 

XXVIII  —  FRANCESCA  AND  PAOLO 26 

XXIX  — THE  UNKNOWN  WAY 26 

XXX  — THE  SOWER 27 

XXXI  — "WHEN  THE  LAST  DOUBT  is  DOUBTED"  .  .  28 

INTERLUDE  .  .  29 


PART  IV 

I  — SONG:  " LOVE,  LOVE,  MY  LOVE" 30 

II  —  THE  MIRROR 30 

III  —  LIKENESS  IN  UNLIKENESS 30 

IV  —  SONG  :  "  NOT  FROM  THE  WHOLE  WIDE  WORLD  "  31 
V  — ALL  IN  ONE 31 


CONTENTS  Vli 

VI  —  "I    COUNT    MY    TIME     BY   TIMES    THAT    I     MEET 

THEE  " 32 

VII  — SONG:  "YEARS  HAVE  FLOWN" 32 

VIII  — THE  SEASONS 32 

IX  —  "SUMMER'S  RAIN  AND  WINTER'S  SNOW"   .    .    .  33 

X  — THE  VIOLIN 33 

XI  —  "O  MIGHTY  RIVER,  TRIUMPHING  TO  THE  SEA"     .  34 

XII  —  "MY  SONGS   ARE  ALL  OF  THEE"         .      .      .      .      .  35 

XIII  — AFTER  MANY  DAYS 35 

XIV  — WEAL  AND  WOE 36 

XV  —  "O,  LOVE  IS  NOT  A   SUMMER   MOOD"      .      .      .      .  36 

XVI  —  "LOVE  IS  NOT  BOND   TO   ANY  MAN"       ....  37 

XVII— "HE   KNOWS  NOT  THE  PATH  OF   DUTY"     ...  37 

AFTER-SONG 38 

THE   CELESTIAL   PASSION 

PRELUDE 41 

PART  I 

ART  AND  LIFE 41 

THE  POET  AND  HIS  MASTER 43 

MORS  TRIUMPHALIS .  45 

THE  MASTER-POETS 49 

PART  II 

A  CHRISTMAS  HYMN 49 

EASTER 50 

A  MADONNA  OF  FRA  LIPPO  LIPPI  .    .    ....    .    .  52 

COST 52 

THE  SONG  OF  A  HEATHEN  (sojourning  in  Galilee,  A.  D.  32)  53 

HOLY  LAND '..    .    .    .    •  53 

ON  A  PORTRAIT  OF  SERVETUS 54 

"DESPISE  NOT  THOU" 54 

"TO  REST  FROM  WEARY  WORK" .      .      .  55 

PART  III 

RECOGNITION 55 

HYMN  SUNG  AT  THE  PRESENTATION  OF  THE  OBELISK  TO 

THE  CITY  OF  NEW  YORK,  FEBRUARY  22,  1 88 1     ...  57 


Vlll  CONTENTS 

A  THOUGHT »    *    .    .  58 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  PINE       ,    .  59 

MORNING,  NOON,  AND  NIGHT 60 

"DAY  UNTO  DAY  UTTERETH  SPEECH" 6l 

PART  IV 

THE  SOUL 61 

"WHEN  LOVE  DAWNED  " .......  62 

LOVE  AND  DEATH  :  — 

I  — "NOW  WHO   CAN   TAKE  FROM  US  WHAT  WE  HAVE 

KNOWN" -. 62 

II  —  "WE  KNOW  NOT  WHERE  THEY  TARRY  WHO  HAVE 

DIED"      ........    '.    .....  63 

FATHER  AND  CHILD      . .    *    .  63 

"BEYOND  THE  BRANCHES  OF  THE  PINE"     .....  64 

AN  AUTUMN  MEDITATION      64 

"CALL  ME  NOT  DEAD" 66 

"EACH  MOMENT  HOLY  IS" 66 

"WHEN  TO  SLEEP  I  MUST" 66 

To  A  DEPARTED  FRIEND.    (J.  G.  H.)     ......  67 

"THE  EVENING  STAR" 67 

LIFE:  — 

i  —  "  GREAT  UNIVERSE  —  WHAT  DOST  THOU  WITH  THY 

DEAD!" 68 

II  —  "AH,  THOU  WILT  NEVER  ANSWER  TO  OUR  CALL"  .  68 

THE  FREED  SPIRIT  ...-.-. 69 

UNDYING  LIGHT:  — 

i  —  "WHEN  IN  THE  GOLDEN  WESTERN  SUMMER  SKIES  "  69 

ii  —  "O  THOU  THE  LORD  AND  MAKER  OF  LIFE  AND 

LIGHT!" 70 

LYRICS 

PART  I 

ODE 73 

A  SONG  OF  EARLY  SUMMER 75 

A  MIDSUMMER  SONG 76 

"ON  THE   WILD   ROSE   TREE" 77 

"BEYOND  ALL  BEAUTY  is  THE  UNKNOWN  GRACE"  ...  78 

THE  VIOLET 78 


CONTENTS  ix 

THE  YOUNG  POET 80 

A  SONG  OF  EARLY  AUTUMN 81 

THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  CHIMNEY 

"A  WORD  SAID  IN  THE  DARK" 87 

A  RIDDLE  OF  LOVERS 87 

THE  DARK  ROOM.    (A  Parable) 88 

BEFORE  SUNRISE 89 

"THE  WOODS  THAT  BRING  THE  SUNSET  NEAR"    ...  89 

SUNSET  FROM  THE  TRAIN .  90 

"AFTER  SORROW'S  NIGHT"     ...,.,....  91 

A  NOVEMBER  CHILD     .    .    . 92 

AT  NIGHT !    ...  92 

CRADLE  SONG 93 

"NINE  YEARS" 93 

"BACK  FROM  THE  DARKNESS  TO  THE  LIGHT  AGAIN"    .      .      94 

PART  II 

FATE 94 

"WE  MET  UPON  THE  CROWDED  WAY" 96 

THE  WHITE  AND  THE  RED  ROSE       96 

A  WOMAN'S  THOUGHT 98 

THE  RIVER  INN 99 

THE  HOMESTEAD 100 

AT  FOUR  SCORE 101 

JOHN  CARMAN       103 

DRINKING  SONG 106 

THE  VOYAGER .    .    .  106 

A  LAMENT  FOR  THE  DEAD  OF  THE  JEANNETTE  BROUGHT 

HOME  ON  THE  FRISIA 107 

ILL  TIDINGS.    (The  Studio  Concert) no 

A  NEW  WORLD no 

PART  III 

CONGRESS:  1878 in 

THE  CITY 112 

REFORM ......  112 

AT  GARFIELD'S  GRAVE.    (September,  1881)      .    .    .    .113 

MEMORIAL  DAY 114 

THE  NORTH  TO  THE  SOUTH 114 


X  CONTENTS 

THE  BURIAL  OF  GRANT.  (New  York,  August  8,  1885)  .  115 
THE  DEAD  COMRADE.  (At  the  burial  of  Grant,  a  bugler 

stood  forth  and  sounded  "taps") 116 

ON  THE  LIFE-MASK  OF  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  .  .  .  .117 
THE  PRESIDENT.  (Written  during  the  first  administration 

of  President  Cleveland) 118 

PART  IV 

ESSIPOFF 118 

ADELE  AUS  DER  OHE 119 

VsMODJESKA 120 

THE  DRAMA.   (Supposed  to  be  from  the  Polish)  .     .     .     .120 

FOR  AN  ALBUM.  (To  be  read  one  hundred  years  after)  .     .  122 

PORTO  FINO.    . 123 

IMPROMPTUS  :  — 

I  —  To  F.  F.  C.  ON  THE  PANSY,  HER  CLASS  FLOWER  124 

ii  —  ART 125 

in — To  A  SOUTHERN  GIRL 125 

iv  —  FOR  A  FAN       125 

v  —  To  T.  B.  A.     (In  acknowledgment  of  a  book  of 

prose) 125 

vi  —  A  THEME 126 

vii  —  THE  CHRISTMAS  TREE  IN  THE  NURSERY.    (For 

F.  and  R.) 126 

PART  V 

Music  AND  WORDS 128 

THE  POET'S  FAME 129 

THE  POET'S  PROTEST 131 

To  A  YOUNG  POET 132 

"WHEN  THE  TRUE  POET  COMES" 132 

YOUTH  AND  AGE      133 

THE  SONNET 134 

A  SONNET  OF  DANTE.    "Tanto  gentile  e  tanto  onesta 

pare" •   .  134 

THE  NEW  TROUBADOURS.    (Avignon,  1879)     ....  135 

KEATS 135 

AN  INSCRIPTION  IN  ROME.    (Piazza  di  Spagna)    .    .    .136 

DESECRATION 136 

"JOCOSERIA" 137 


CONTENTS  xi 

To  AN  ENGLISH  FRIEND,  WITH  EMERSON'S  "POEMS"    .  138 

OUR  ELDER  POETS.     (1878) 139 

LONGFELLOW'S  "BOOK  OF  SONNETS" 140 

"H.  H."       140 

THE  MODERN  RHYMER 141 

TWO  WORLDS   AND   OTHER   POEMS 

PART   I 
Two  WORLDS 

i  —  THE  VENUS  OF  MILO 145 

ii  —  MICHAEL  ANGELO'S  SLAVE  .    .    .    .    %    .    .    .145 

PART  II 

THE  STAR  IN  THE  CITY 145 

MOONLIGHT 146 

"I  CARE  NOT  IF  THE  SKIES  ARE  WHITE" 147 

CONTRASTS 148 

SERENADE.    (For  Music) 148 

LARGESS 149 

INDOORS,  AT  NIGHT 149 

THE  ABSENT  LOVER 150 

"TO -NIGHT  THE  MUSIC  DOTH  A  BURDEN  BEAR"   .    .    .150 

SANCTUM  SANCTORUM 150 

THE  GIFT 151 

"An,  TIME,  GO  NOT  so  SOON" 153 

"THE   YEARS   ARE   ANGELS " 1 53 

"IN  HER  YOUNG  EYES" 153 

"YESTERDAY,  WHEN  WE  WERE  FRIENDS" 153 

A  NIGHT  SONG.    (For  the  Guitar) 154 

LEO 154 

PART  III 

BROTHERS 155 

LOVE,  ART,  AND  TIME.    (On  a  picture  entitled  "The 

Portrait,"  by  Will  H.  Low) 156 

THE  DANCERS.   (On  a  picture  entitled  "Summer,"  by  T. 

W.  Dewing) i56 

THE  TWENTY -THIRD  OF  APRIL 157 

EMMA  LAZARUS *57 

THE  TWELFTH  OF  DECEMBER.    (Robert  Browning)  .     .158 


Xll  CONTENTS 

PART  IV 

SHERIDAN 158 

SHERMAN 160 

/^RO  PATRIA.    (In  memory  of  a  faithful  chaplain :  the  Rev. 

V     William  Henry  Gilder) 161 

To  THE  SPIRIT  OF  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.    (Reunion  at  Get 
tysburg  twenty-five  years  after  the  battle)  .    .    .    .     .163 

FAILURE  AND  SUCCESS.    (G.  C.,  1888) 163 

J.  R.  L. :  ON  HIS  BIRTHDAY 164 

NAPOLEON    ...         164 

THE  WHITE  CZAR'S  PEOPLE 164 

CHARLESTON:  1886 167 

PART  V 
HIDE  NOT  THY  HEART       .........    *    .  168 

"THE  POET  FROM  HIS  OWN  SORROW" 169 

"WHITE,  PILLARED  NECK" 170 

"GREAT  NATURE  is  AN  ARMY  GAY"    .    .    ...    .    .170 

"LIFE  IS  THE  COST  " 171 

THE  PRISONER'S  THOUGHT 172 

THE  CONDEMNED      .    .    .    .-.   .    .    .    .    ,    .    .    .    .173 

"Sow  THOU  SORROW" 174 

TEMPTATION 174 

A  MIDSUMMER  MEDITATION 174 

"AS  DOTH  THE  BIRD"  175 

VISIONS  :  — 

i  —  "CAST  INTO  THE  PIT" 175 

ii  —  "CAME  TO  HIM  ONCE" 176 

m  —  "WITH  FULL-TONED  BEAT" 176 

WITH  A  CROSS  OF  IMMORTELLES 176 

THE  PASSING  OF  CHRIST 177 

CREDO 180 

NON  SINE  DOLORE    ...» 181 

PART  VI 

ODE.   (Read  before  the  Alpha  Chapter  of  the  Phi  Beta 

Kappa  Society,  Harvard  University,  June  26,  1890)     .  185 
AFTER-SONG:  To  ROSAMOND 189 


CONTENTS  Xlll 

THE   GREAT   REMEMBRANCE 
PART  I 

THE  GREAT  REMEMBRANCE.  (Read  at  the  Annual  Re 
union  of  the  Society  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac,  Faneuil 
Hall,  Boston,  June  27,  1893)  .  .  .  .  .  .  *  .  .193 

PART  II 

"THE  WHITE  CITY."  (The  Columbian  Exposition)  .  .  201 

THE  VANISHING  CITY 202 

THE  TOWER  OF  FLAME.  (The  Columbian  Exposition,  July 

10,  1893) 204 

LOWELL ,.-....  .  .205 

THE  SILENCE  OF  TENNYSON 206 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  GREAT  MAN.  (Phillips  Brooks)  207 
A  HERO  OF  PEACE.  (In  memory  of  Robert  Ross:  shot 

March  6,  1894) 207 

WASHINGTON  AT  TRENTON.  (The  Battle  Monument, 

October  19,  1893) 208 

FAME 209 

A  MONUMENT  BY  SAINT -GAUDENS  ........  209 

A  MEMORY  OF  RUBINSTEIN 210 

JJ2ADEREWSKI ' .  .  2IO 

HANDEL'S  LARGO 211 

THE  STAIRWAY 212 

THE  ACTOR  212 

THE  STRICKEN  PLAYER.  (Edwin  Booth) 212 

AN  AUTUMN  DIRGE,  (E.  F.  H.) 213 

ELEONORA  DUSE 215 

KELP  ROCK.  (E.  C.  S.) 215 

AT  NIAGARA 215 

THE  CHILD-GARDEN .  216 

THE  CHRIST-CHILD.  (A  picture  by  Frank  Vincent  Du 

Mond) 217 

A  CHILD 218 

Two  VALLEYS 218 

ON  THE  BAY 219 

WASHINGTON  SQUARE 219 

THE  CITY  220 


XIV  CONTENTS 

A  RHYME  OF  TYRINGHAM.   (In  the  Berkshire  Mountains)  221 

ELSIE 222 

INDIRECTION 223 

"An,  BE  NOT  FALSE" 223 

THE  ANSWER 224 

How  DEATH  MAY  MAKE  A  MAN 224 

"CAME  TO  A  MASTER  OF  SONG" 225 

BARDS 226 

MERIDIAN .    .    .    .  227 

EVENING  IN  TYRINGHAM  VALLEY 228 

PART  III 

A  WEEK'S  CALENDAR:  — 

i  —  NEW  YEAR  .............  228 

ii  — A  NEW  SOUL ; 229 

HI  —  "KEEP  PURE  THY  SOUL" 229 

IV  —  "THY  MIND  IS  LIKE  A  CRYSTAL  BROOK".  .  .  229 

V  —  "ONE  DEED  MAY  MAR  A  LIFE" 230 

vi  — THE  UNKNOWN 230 

vii  —  IRREVOCABLE 230 

PART  IV 
SONGS:  — 

"BECAUSE  THE  ROSE  MUST  FADE" 231 

"FADES  THE  ROSE" 232 

THE  WINTRY  HEART 232 

HAST  THOU  HEARD  THE  NIGHTINGALE? 233 

"IN  THAT  DREAD,  DREAMED-OF  HOUR" 233 

" ROSE-DARK  THE  SOLEMN  SUNSET" 234 

"WINDS  TO  THE  SILENT  MORN"       234 

THE  UNRETURNING 235 

Two  YEARS 235 

IN  PALESTINE  AND   OTHER   POEMS 
PART  I 

IN.  PALESTINE 239 

THE  ANGER  OF  CHRIST 242 

THE  BIRDS  OF  BETHLEHEM 243 


CONTENTS  XV 

NOEL 244 

"THE  SUPPER  AT  EMMAUS."  (A  picture  by  Rembrandt)    .  244 

THE  DOUBTER 245 

THE  PARTHENON  BY  MOONLIGHT 245 

THE  OTTOMAN  EMPIRE 246 

KARNAK 247 

"ANGELO,  THOU  ART  THE  MASTER" 249 

A  WINTER  TWILIGHT  IN  PROVENCE .    .250 

PART  II 

"THE  POET'S  DAY" 253 

"HOW  TO  THE  SINGER  COMES  THE  SONG?"     ....  253 

"LIKE  THE  BRIGHT  PICTURE" 254 

REMEMBRANCE  OF  BEAUTY 254 

Music  IN  SOLITUDE 255 

"A  POWER  THERE  IS" 256 

THE  SONG'S  ANSWER .    .257 

THE  'CELLO 257 

THE  VALLEY  ROAD       258 

HAWTHORNE  IN  BERKSHIRE 259 

LATE  SUMMER 260 

AN  HOUR  IN  A  STUDIO.   (F.  L ) 260 

ILLUSION 261 

A  SONG  OF  THE  ROAD 261 

"NoT  HERE" .  262 

"'No,  NO,'  SHE  SAID" 262 

A  SOUL  LOST,  AND  FOUND 263 

"THIS  HOUR  MY  HEART  WENT  FORTH,  AS  IN  OLD  DAYS"    264 

"EVEN  WHEN  JOY  is  NEAR"       265 

RESURRECTION 266 

"AS  SOARS  THE  EAGLE" 266 

PART  III 

ROBERT  GOULD  SHAW.     (The  monument  by  Augustus 

Saint-Gaudens) 267 

"THE  NORTH  STAR  DRAWS  THE  HERO."    (To  H.  N.  G.)  268 

GLAVE 269 

OF  HENRY  GEORGE.    (Who  died  fighting  against  political 
tyranny  and  corruption,  New  York,  1897)      ....  269 


XVI  CONTENTS 

SCORN 269 

THE  HEROIC  AGE.    (Athens,  1896) 270 

THE  SWORD  OF  THE  SPIRIT.  (In  memory  of  Joe  Evans)  .  271 

"THROUGH  ALL  THE  CUNNING  AGES" 272 

ONE  COUNTRY  —  ONE  SACRIFICE.    (Ensign  Worth  Bag- 
ley,  May  n,  1898) 273 

"WHEN  WITH  THEIR  COUNTRY'S  ANGER" 273 

A  VISION 274 

THE  WORD  OF  THE  WHITE  CZAR       275 

PART  IV 

A  SONG  FOR  DOROTHEA,  ACROSS  THE  SEA 277 

A  BLIND  POET ,  , 278 

ON  A  WOMAN  SEEN  UPON  THE  STAGE.  ("Tess,"  as  played 

by  Mrs.  Fiske) 278 

Of  ONE  WHO  NEITHER  SEES  NOR  HEARS.  (Helen  Keller)  278 
FOR  THE  ESPOUSALS  OF  JEANNE  ROUMANILLE,  OF  AVIGNON  279 
To  MARIE  JOSEPHINE  GIRARD,  QUEEN  OF  THE  FELIBRES, 

ON  HER  WEDDING-DAY 280 

INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  TOWER  IN  FLORENCE.  (Written  for 

the  Chatelaine) , 280 

WITH  A  VOLUME  OF  DANTE  .  .  .  , 281 

POEMS   AND   INSCRIPTIONS 

AUTUMN  AT  FOUR -BROOKS  FARM 285 

INDOORS  IN  EARLY  SPRING 285 

THE  NIGHT  PASTURE 286 

A  LETTER  FROM  THE  FARM 288 

SUMMER  BEGINS 291 

"STROLLING  TOWARD  SHOTTERY" 291 

STRATFORD  BELLS 292 

IN  WORDSWORTH'S  ORCHARD.  (Dove  Cottage).  .  .  .  293 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 293 

A  DAY  IN  TUSCANY 295 

A  SACRED  COMEDY  IN  FLORENCE.  (In  which  takes  part 

a  certain  statue  on  the  facade  of  the  Duomo)  .  .  .  296 
MICHAEL  ANGELO'S  AURORA.  (The  Medici  Chapel, 

Florence)  297 

THE  OLD  MASTER 297 


CONTENTS  XV11 

AT  LUTHER'S  GRAVE.    (Wittenberg) 298 

BEETHOVEN.    (Vienna) 298 

THE  DESERT 299 

EGYPT 299 

SYRIA 3°° 

THE  DEAD  POET.    (A.  H.) 300 

WAR 301 

THE  BLAMELESS  KNIGHT       302 

THE  DEMAGOGUE *    ....  303 

THE  TOOL 3°3 

THE  NEW  POLITICIAN 304 

A  LADY  TO  A  KNIGHT       305 

"IS   HOPE  A  PHANTOM?" 305 

SONG:  "!F  LEST  THY  HEART  BETRAY  THEE  "...*.  305 

MEMORY       306 

"O  GLORIOUS  SABBATH  SUN"     .    .    .    , 307 

MOTTO  FOR  A  TREE-PLANTING 307 

JANET •    •  3°7 

ON  BEING  ASKED  FOR  A  SONG  CONCERNING  THE  DEDICA 
TION  OF  A  MOUNTAIN  IN  SAMOA  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 
STEVENSON.  (A  letter  to  I.  O.  S.)  .......  308 

To  AUSTIN  DOBSON 309 

To  L.  R.  S 3°9 

A  NAME 310 

JOHN  GEORGE  NICOLAY.  (Washington,  D.  C,  Septem 
ber,  1901) 310 

THE  COMFORT  OF  THE  TREES.    (McKinley:  September, 

1901) 310 

THE  CITY  OF  LIGHT.    (The  Pan-American  Exposition)    311 
INSCRIPTIONS  FOR  THE  PAN-AMERICAN  EXPOSITION  AT 
BUFFALO,  1901 

FOR  THE  PROPYL^EA .....  315 

FOR  THE  STADIUM 315 

FOR  THE  GREAT  PYLONS  OF  THE  TRIUMPHAL  CAUSE 
WAY  .    .    .  3l6 

DEDICATORY  INSCRIPTIONS 3*8 

"IN  THE   RIGHTS" 

"!N  THE  HIGHTS."     (John  R.  Procter) 323 

HOME  ACRES 324 


XV111  CONTENTS 

A  CALL  TO  THE  MOUNTAINS 325 

SPRING  SURPRISE 327 

AUTUMN  TREES 327 

"THE  LIGHT  LIES  ON  THE  FARTHER  HILLS "    .     .    .     .327 

"AH,  NEAR,  DEAR  FRIEND" 328 

Music  IN  DARKNESS.     (Adele  aus  der  Ohe)     .     .     .    .328 

THE  ANGER  OF  BEETHOVEN 330 

MOTHER  AND  CHILD 330 

ALICE  FREEMAN  PALMER 331 

"MOTHER  OF  HEROES."  (Sarah  Blake  Shaw)  .  .  .  331 
THE  GREAT  CITIZEN.  (Abram  Stevens  Hewitt)  .  .  .332 
ON  READING  OF  A  POET'S  DEATH.  (Carlyle  McKinley)  332 

JOHN  HENRY  BONER 333 

"A  WONDROUS  SONG" 333 

A  NEW  POET 334 

THE  SINGER  OF  JOY 335 

BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS 335 

LOST 336 

"WHAT  MAN  HATH  DONE" 336 

"HE  PONDERED  WELL" 337 

"THOU  THINKEST  THOU  HAST  LIVED" 338 

THE  GOOD  MAN       338 

"SO  FIERCE  THE  BUFFETS " 339 

Two  HEROES 339 

THE  WORLD'S  END       340 

SHELLEY'S  "OZYMANDIAS" 340 

LA  SALLE.  1  (Explorer  of  the  Mississippi) 341 

INAUGURATION  DAY 341 

THE  WASHINGTON  MONUMENT.   (At  Washington,  D.  C.)  342 

BUILDERS  OF  THE  STATE 342 

IMPROMPTUS  :  — 

To  WILLIAM  WATSON.   (On  his  Coronation  Ode)  .     .  344 
"LiFE  is  THE  HAMMER."      (Sidney  Lanier)  ....  344 

"THE  CRITIC  SCANNED  THE  POET'S  BOOK"     ....   344 

"HER  DELICATE  FORM" 345 

FRANCESCA  MIA 345 

AGE,   AND  THE   SCORNER 345 

To  JACOB  A.  Rns.    (On  his  Silver  Wedding)    .    .     .346 

Music  AND  FRIENDSHIP 346 

FRIENDSHIP.   (To ) 346 

To  E.  C.  S.    (On  his  Seventieth  Birthday)    .     .     .     .347 


CONTENTS 

"TELL  ME  GOOD-BY" 347 

FAREWELL  TO  CHARLESTON 348 

"THE  PINES" 348 

"NOT  WREATHS  ALONE" 349 

FOR  THE  CITY  CLUB 349 

To  CHARLES  H.  RUSSELL.     (Whose  father  was  one  of 
Lincoln's  helpers) 349 

"GIVE  THY  DAY  TO   DUTY" 350 

Two  OPTIMISTS.    (A  letter  to  Joseph  Jefferson,  ack 
nowledging    a   copy    of   Helen   Keller's  Essay  on 

"Optimism") 350 

THE  PASSING  OF  JOSEPH  JEFFERSON 351 

"SHALL  WE  NOT  PRAISE  THE  LIVING?" 353 

HYMN.  (Written  for  the  service  in  memory  of  Dr  J.  L.  M. 
Curry,  held  by  the  Southern  Education  Conference, 

Richmond,  Virginia,  April  26,  1903) 356 

JOHN  WESLEY.  (Written  for  the  celebration  of  the  two- 
hundredth  anniversary  of  the  birth  of  John  Wesley,  at 
Wesleyan  University,  Middletown,  Connecticut,  June, 

1903) 357 

A  TEMPLE  OF  ART.  (Written  for  the  opening  of  the  Al 
bright  Art  Gallery,  Buffalo,  May  31,  1905) 361 

THE  FIRE   DIVINE 

THE  FIRE  DIVINE 367 

THE  INVISIBLE.     (At  a  lecture) 368 

DESTINY.   (After  reading  a  work  on  Astronomy)    .     .     .  369 

THE  OLD  FAITH 369 

THE  DOUBTER'S  SOLILOQUY 370 

LAW 372 

IDENTITY 373 

"SPARE  ME  MY  DREAMS" 374 

HYMN.  (Thanksgiving  for  Saints  and  Prophets)  .     .     .     .374 

THE  VALLEY  OF  LIFE 375 

To  ONE  IMPATIENT  OF  FORM  IN  ART 377 

To  THE  POET 378 

COMPENSATION 379 

THE  POET'S  SECRET 380 

"THE  DAY  BEGAN  AS  OTHER  DAYS  BEGIN"      ....  380 


XX  CONTENTS 

A  POET'S  QUESTION 381 

PRELUDE  FOR  "A  BOOK  OF  Music" 382 

Music  AT  TWILIGHT 384 

Music  IN  MOONLIGHT 386 

THE  UNKNOWN  SINGER 387 

THE  VOICE 387 

WAGNER 388 

"THE  PATHETIC  SYMPHONY."   (Tschaikowsky)    .    .    .388 

VMACDOWELL 388 

A  FANTASY  OF  CHOPIN.  (Gabrilowitsch) 389 

"HOW  STRANGE  THE   MUSICIAN'S   MEMORY" 390 

"IN  A  NIGHT  OF  MIDSUMMER" 390 

IN  THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS 391 

JOHN  PAUL  JONES  .  .  .  .  .  .  w  *  .  .  .  .  .391 

To  EMMA  LAZARUS.  (1905)  .  .  .  •. 392 

CARL  SCHURZ » 392 

GEORGE  MACDONALD .  ,  .  .  393 

JOSEPHINE  SHAW  LOWELL  ....»»•...».  394 
"ONE  ROSE  OF  SONG."  (Mary  Putnam  Jacobi)  .  .  .  396 

JOHN  MALONE.  (1906) 397 

"LOST  LEADERS."  (City  Club  Memorial  in  honor  of 

Wheeler  H.  Peckham,  James  C.  Carter,  William  H. 

Baldwin,  Jr.,  and  Norton  Goddard) 397 

ON  A  CERTAIN  AGNOSTIC.  (G.  E.) 398 

"A   WEARY   WASTE   WITHOUT  HER."      (L.  B.  P.)      ...    398 

THE  POET'S  SLEEP.  (T.  B.  A.) 399 

WHERE  SPRING  BEGAN 399 

AVARICE 400 

PITY  THE  BLIND 400 

PROOF  OF  SERVICE.  (To  R.  F.  C.) 400 

CONQUERED  , 401 

BLAME.  (A  memory  of  Eisleben,  the  place  of  Luther's 

birth  and  death) 401 

THE  WHISPERERS.  (New  York,  1905) 402 

BEFORE  THE  GRAND  JURY 403 

"!N  THE  CITIES" 404 

A  TRAGEDY  OF  TO-DAY.  (New  York,  1905)  ....  406 

THE  OLD  HOUSE 409 

"THERE  's  NO  PLACE  LIKE  THE  OLD  PLACE."  (Old  Home 

Week,  Tyringham,  1905) 412 

GLEN  GILDER 417 


CONTENTS 

SONG:  "MARIA  MIA" 418 

OBSCURATION 419 

"I  DREAMED" 419 

IMPROMPTUS  :  — 

"FROM  LOVE  TO  LOVE."  (Fora  wedding)  .....  420 

"I   ASKED   YOU   TO   READ   MY  POEM"        .      .      .      -     .      .    420 

NAZIMOVA .    *    .    k    .    .  420 

A  WARRIOR  OF  TROY 420 

THE  OBELISK  (1881) .  421 

CROWNED  ABSURDITIES 421 

To  "LITTLE  LADY  MARGARET"  —  WITH  A  BOOK  OF 

POEMS v  %    ...  421 

SACRILEGE     . .  421 

To  THE  HERO  OF  A  SCIENTIFIC  ROMANCE    .    .    .    .421 
THE  WATCHMAN  ON  THE  TOWER.    (January,  1907)  .     .422 
UNDER  THE  STARS  :   A  REQUIEM  FOR  AUGUSTUS  SAINT- 
GAUD  ENS  ......  424 

IN  HELENA'S    GARDEN 

PART  I 

IN  HELENA'S  GARDEN 

THE  SUNSET  WINDOW 431 

"THE  GRAY  WALLS  OF  THE  GARDEN"  - 431 

THE  MARBLE  POOL 432 

THE  TABLE  ROUND 433 

THE  SUN-DIAL 434 

"SOMETHING  MISSING  FROM  THE  GARDEN"   ....  434 

THREE  FLOWERS  OF  THE  GARDEN 435 

EARLY  AUTUMN 436 

THE  LAST  FLOWER  OF  THE  GARDEN  ......  436 

PART  II 

THE  LION  OF  TYRINGHAM „    ^    .  437 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  HIGHT 437 

A  SONG  OF  FRIENDSHIP 439 

A  ROSE  OF  DREAM 440 

SONG:  "O  WHITHER  HAS  SHE  FLED  FROM  OUT  THE  DAWN 
ING  AND  THE  DAY?" 440 


XX11  CONTENTS 

"WHEN  THE  GIRLS  COME  TO  THE  OLD  HOUSE"    .    .    .  441 

THE  SONG  OF  A  SONG 443 

THE  NET 444 

SONG:  "O  PURER  FAR  THAN  EVER  I!" 445 

SONG:  "I  AWOKE  IN  THE  MORNING  NOT  KNOWING"  .    .  445 

"WHEN  THE  WAR  FLEET  PUTS  TO  SEA" 446 

ART.     (Miss  Geraldine  Farrar  in  "Madama  Butterfly")  .  447 

In  PRAISE  OF  PORTRAITURE 448 

IN  TIMES  OF  PEACE 450 

IMPROMPTUS  :  — 

EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE 451 

BARDS  OF  BRITAIN  (1908) 451 

CALVE .  ' 451 

IN  A  CONCERT  ROOM 452 

THE  LONESOME  WILD 452 

NEW  FRIENDS  AND  OLD 452 

SHADOW  AND  SUN     y 452 

A  NAVAL  SURGEON  OF  THE  WAR  FOR  THE  UNION    .  452 

A  MOTHER'S  PICTURE 453 

ON  A  YOUNG  HERO 453 

A  HERO'S  BRIDE 453 

To  ONE  WHO  PRAISED  "THE  GAY  LIFE"    ....  453 

LYRIC  LIVES 453 

SONG  :  "  A  LITTLE  LONGER  STILL  IN  SUMMER  SUNS"    .     .453 

THE  SINGING  RIVER 454 

THE  SOLACE  OF  THE  SKIES 454 

THE  WINDING  PATH 455 

"WHAT  MAKES  THE  GARDEN  GROW" 456 

"IF,  ONE  GREAT  DAY" 457 

MUSIC  BENEATH  THE  STARS 458 

THE  BIRDS  OF  WESTLAND 458 

THE  VEIL  OF  STARS 459 

INDEX    OF   FIRST  LINES 461 

INDEX  OF   TITLES 473 

FRONTISPIECE  :  Photograph  by  Gessford. 
DECORATIONS  by  H.  de  K.  G. 


THE    NEW   DAY 

A  POEM  IN   SONGS  AND   SONNETS 


THE  NEW  DAY 


PRELUDE 

THE  night  was  dark,  tho'  sometimes  a  faint  star 
A  little  while  a  little  space  made  bright. 
Dark  was  the  night  and  like  an  iron  bar 
Lay  heavy  on  the  land  —  till  o'er  the  sea 
Slowly,  within  the  East,  there  grew  a  light 
Which  half  was  starlight,  and  half  seemed  to  be 
The  herald  of  a  greater.   The  pale  white 
Turned  slowly  to  pale  rose,  and  up  the  hight 
Of  heaven  slowly  climbed.   The  gray  sea  grew 
Rose-colored  like  the  sky.   A  white  gull  flew 
Straight  toward  the  utmost  boundary  of  the  East 
Where  slowly  the  rose  gathered  and  increased. 
There  was  light  now,  where  all  was  black  before: 
It  was  as  on  the  opening  of  a  door 
By  one  who  in  his  hand  a  lamp  doth  hold 
(Its  flame  being  hidden  by  the  garment's  fold),  — 
The  still  air  moves,  the  wide  room  is  less  dim. 

More  bright  the  East  became,  the  ocean  turned 
Dark  and  more  dark  against  the  brightening  sky  — 
Sharper  against  the  sky  the  long  sea  line. 
The  hollows  of  the  breakers  on  the  shore 
Were  green  like  leaves  whereon  no  sun  doth  shine, 
Tho'  sunlight  make  the  outer  branches  hoar. 
From  rose  to  red  the  level  heaven  burned; 
Then  sudden,  as  if  a  sword  fell  from  on  high, 
A  blade  of  gold  flashed  on  the  ocean's  rim. 


THE  NEW  DAY 


PART    I 

I  — SONNET 

(AFTER  THE  ITALIAN) 

I  KNOW  not  if  I  love  her  overmuch ; 

But  this  I  know,  that  when  unto  her  face 

She  lifts  her  hand,  which  rests  there,  still,  a  space, 

Then  slowly  falls —  't  is  I  who  feel  that  touch. 

And  when  she  sudden  shakes  her  head,  with  such 
A  look,  I  soon  her  secret  meaning  trace. 
So  when  she  runs  I  think  't  is  I  who  race. 
Like  a  poor  cripple  who  has  lost  his  crutch 

I  am  if  she  is  gone;  and  when  she  goes, 
I  know  not  why,  for  that  is  a  strange  art  — 
As  if  myself  should  from  myself  depart. 

I  know  not  if  I  love  her  more  than  those 

Who  long  her  light  have  known;  but  for  the  rose 
She  covers  in  her  hair,  I  'd  give  my  heart. 

II— SONNET 

(AFTER  THE  ITALIAN) 

I  LIKE  her  gentle  hand  that  sometimes  strays, 
To  find  the  place,  through  the  same  book  with 

mine; 

I  like  her  feet;  and  O,  those  eyes  divine! 
And  when  we  say  farewell,  perhaps  she  stays 

Love-lingering  —  then  hurries  on  her  ways, 

As  if  she  thought,  "To  end  my  pain  and  thine." 
I  like  her  voice  better  than  new-made  wine; 
I  like  the  mandolin  whereon  she  plays. 


HESITATION  5 

And  I  like,  too,  the  cloak  I  saw  her  wear, 

And  the  red  scarf  that  her  white  neck  doth  cover, 
And  well  I  like  the  door  that  she  comes  through; 

I  like  the  riband  that  doth  bind  her  hair  — 
But  then,  in  truth,  I  am  that  lady's  lover, 
And  every  new  day  there  is  something  new. 

Ill  — "A  BARREN  STRETCH  THAT  SLANTS 
TO   THE  SALT  SEA'S   GRAY" 

A  BARREN  stretch  that  slants  to  the  salt  sea's  gray,  — 
Rock-strewn,  and  scarred  by  fire,  and  rough  with 

stubble,  — 

With  here  and  there  a  bold,  bright  touch  of  color  — 
Berries  and  yellow  leaves,  that  make  the  dolor 
More  dolorous  still.   Above,  a  sky  of  trouble. 

But  now  a  light  is  lifted  in  the  air; 

And  tho'  the  sky  is  shadowed,  fold  on  fold, 
By  clouds  that  have  the  lightnings  in  their  hold, 

That  western  gleam  makes  all  the  dim  earth  fair  — • 
And  the  gray  sea  gold. 

IV  — HESITATION 

(A  PORTRAIT) 

TO-DAY  I  saw  the  picture  of  a  man 

Who,  issuing  from  a  wood,  doth  thrust  apart 
Strong-matted,  thorny  branches,  whose  keen  smart 
He  heeds  in  nowise,  if  he  only  can 

Win  the  red  rose  a  maiden,  like  a  fan, 
Holds  daintily.   She,  listening  to  her  heart, 
Hath  looked  another  way.    Ah,  would  she  start, 
And  weep,  and  suffer  sorrow,  if  he  ran  — 


THE  NEW  DAY 

For  utter  love  of  her,  forever  back 

Into  the  shadows,  which  thrice  darker  were 
Because  her  whiteness  made  their  black  more  black ! 

A  little  while  he  waits,  lest  he  should  err. 
Awhile  he  wonders,  secretly. — Alack! 
He  could  so  gladly  die  or  live  for  her. 

V  — LOVE  GROWN  BOLD 

THIS  is  her  picture  painted  ere  mine  eyes 

Her  ever  holy  face  had  looked  upon. 

She  sitteth  in  a  silence  of  her  own ; 

Behind  her,  on  the  ground,  a  red  rose  lies; 
Her  thinking  brow  is  bent,  nor  doth  arise 

Her  gaze  from  that  shut  book  whose  word  unknown 

Her  firm  hands  hide  from  her;  there  all  alone 

She  sitteth  in  thought-trouble,  maidenwise. 
And  now  her  lover  waiting  wondereth 

Whether  the  joy  of  joys  is  drawing  near; 

Shall  his  brave  fingers  like  a  tender  breath 
That  shut  book  open  for  her,  wide  and  clear? 

From  him  who  her  sweet  shadow  worshipeth 

Now  will  she  take  the  rose,  and  hold  it  dear? 

INTERLUDE 

THE  sun  rose  swift  and  sent  a  golden  gleam 

Across  the  moving  waters  to  the  land; 

Then  for  a  little  while  it  seemed  to  stand 

In  a  clear  place,  midway  'twixt  sea  and  cloud; 

Whence  rising  swift  again  it  past  behind 

Full  many  a  long  and  narrow  cloud-wrought  beam 

Encased  in  gold  unearthly,  that  was  mined 

From  out  the  hollow  caverns  of  the  wind. 


THE   TRAVELER  7 

These  first  revealed  its  face  and  next  did  shroud, 
While  still  the  daylight  grew,  and  joy  thereby 
Lit  all  the  windy  stretches  of  the  sky  — 

Until  a  shadow  darkened  from  the  east 
And  sprang  upon  the  ocean  like  a  beast. 


PART  II 


THERE  was  a  field  green  and  fragrant  with  grass  and 
flowers,  and  flooded  with  sunlight,  and  the  air  above  it 
throbbed  with  the  songs  of  birds.  It  was  yet  morning 
when  a  great  darkness  spread  over  the  earth,  and  out  of 
the  darkness  lightning,  and  after  the  lightning  fire  that 
consumed  every  green  thing;  and  the  singing  birds  fell 
dying  upon  the  blackened  grass.  The  thunder  and  the 
flame  past,  but  it  was  still  dark  —  till  a  ray  of  light 
touched  the  field's  edge  and  grew,  little  by  little.  Then 
one  who  listened  heard  —  not  the  songs  of  birds  again, 
but  the  flutter  of  broken  wings. 

II  — THE  TRAVELER 

I  MET  a  traveler  on  the  road 
Whose  back  was  bent  beneath  a  load; 
His  face  was  worn  with  mortal  care, 
His  frame  beneath  its  burden  shook, 
Yet  onward,  restless,  he  did  fare 
With  mien  unyielding,  fixt,  a  look 
Set  forward  in  the  empty  air 
As  he  were  reading  an  unseen  book. 


THE  NEW  DAY 

What  was  it  in  his  smile  that  stirred 
My  soul  to  pity!   When  I  drew 
More  near  it  seemed  as  if  I  heard 
The  broken  echo  of  a  tune 
Learned  in  some  far  and  happy  June. 
His  lips  were  parted,  but  unmoved 
By  words.   He  sang  as  dreamers  do, 
And  not  as  if  he  heard  and  loved 
The  song  he  sang:  I  hear  it  now! 

He  stood  beside  the  level  brook, 
Nor  quenched  his  thirst,  nor  bathed  his  brow, 
Nor  from  his  back  the  burden  shook. 
He  stood,  and  yet  he  did  not  rest; 
His  eyes  climbed  up  in  aimless  quest, 
Then  close  did  to  that  mirror  bow  — 
And,  looking  down,  I  saw  in  place 
Of  his,  my  own  familiar  face. 

Ill— "COME  TO  ME  YE  WHO  SUFFER" 

COME  to  me  ye  who  suffer,  for  to  all 
I  am  a  brother  now !    'T  was  not  in  vain 
I  saw  the  face  of  Sorrow;  she  who  slain 
Yet  lives ;  whose  voice  when  she  doth  weep  and  call 

Is  silent.   When  she  weeps?  Nay,  nay!  the  pall 
Is  on  her  tears  too  —  they  are  dead.   The  rain 
Is  molten-hot,  dust-dry  from  her  dull  pain, 
Like  ashes  from  the  burning  heavens  that  fall. 

I  know  the  world-wide,  lovely,  living  lie; 
I  know  the  truth  that  better  were  unknown; 
I  know  the  joyful  laugh  that  is  a  cry 

Torn  from  a  heart  whence  hope  and  faith  have  flown, 
And  yet  beats  on,  and  will  not,  dare  not  die. 
I  know  the  anguish  without  word  or  moan. 


AND   WERE  THAT   BEST  9 

IV— WRITTEN   ON  A  FLY-LEAF  OF 
"SHAKESPEARE'S   SONNETS" 

WHEN  shall  true  love  be  love  without  alloy  — 
Shine  free  at  last  from  sinful  circumstance! 
When  shall  the  canker  of  unheavenly  chance 
Eat  not  the  bud  of  that  most  heavenly  joy! 

When  shall  true  love  meet  love  not  as  a  coy 
Retreating  light  that  leads  a  deathful  dance, 
But  as  a  firm  fixt  fire  that  doth  enhance 
The  beauty  of  all  beauty!   Will  the  employ 

Of  poets  ever  be  too  well  to  show 
That  mightiest  love  with  sharpest  pain  doth  writhe; 
That  underneath  the  fair,  caressing  glove 

Hides  evermore  the  iron  hand;  and  tho' 

Love's  flower  alone  is  good,  if  we  would  prove 
Its  perfect  bloom,  our  breath  slays  like  a  scythe! 

V— "AND  WERE  THAT  BEST!'1 

AND  were  that  best,  Love,  dreamless,  endless  sleep ! 

Gone  all  the  fury  of  the  mortal  day  — 

The  daylight  gone,  and  gone  the  starry  ray! 

And  were  that  best,  Love,  rest  serene  and  deep ! 
Gone  labor  and  desire;  no  arduous  steep 

To  climb,  no  songs  to  sing,  no  prayers  to  pray, 

No  help  for  those  who  perish  by  the  way, 

No  laughter  'mid  our  tears,  no  tears  to  weep! 
And  were  that  best,  Love,  sleep  with  no  dear  dream, 

Nor  memory  of  anything  in  life  — 

Stark  death  that  neither  help  nor  hurt  can  know ! 
O,  rather,  far,  the  sorrow-bringing  gleam, 

The  living  day's  long  agony  and  strife ! 

Rather  strong  love  in  pain ;  the  waking  woe ! 


10  THE  NEW  DAY 

VI  — "THERE   IS   NOTHING   NEW   UNDER 

THE    SUN" 

THERE  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun; 

There  is  no  new  hope  or  despair; 
The  agony  just  begun 

Is  as  old  as  the  earth  and  the  air. 
My  secret  soul  of  bliss 

Is  one  with  the  singing  stars, 
And  the  ancient  mountains  miss 

No  hurt  that  my  being  mars. 

I  know  as  I  know  my  life, 

I  know  as  I  know  my  pain, 
That  there  is  no  lonely  strife, 

That  he  is  mad  who  would  gain 
A  separate  balm  for  his  woe, 

A  single  pity  and  cover; 
The  one  great  God  I  know 

Hears  the  same  prayer  over  and  over. 

I  know  it  because  at  the  portal 

Of  Heaven  I  bowed  and  cried, 
And  I  said:  "Was  ever  a  mortal 

Thus  crowned  and  crucified! 
My  praise  Thou  hast  made  my  blame; 

My  best  Thou  hast  made  my  worst; 
My  good  Thou  hast  turned  to  shame; 

My  drink  is  a  flaming  thirst." 

But  scarce  my  prayer  was  said 
Ere  from  that  place  I  turned; 

I  trembled,  I  hung  my  head, 

My  cheek,  shame-smitten,  burned; 


INTERLUDE  1 1 

For  there  where  I  bowed  down 

In  my  boastful  agony, 
I  thought  of  thy  cross  and  crown  — 

O  Christ!  I  remembered  thee. 

VII  — LOVE'S  CRUELTY 

"AND  this,  then,  is  thy  love,"  I  hear  thee  say, 

"And  dost  thou  love,  and  canst  thou  torture  so? 

Ah,  spare  me,  if  thou  lov'st  me,  this  last  woe!" 

But  I  am  not  my  own;  I  must  obey 
My  master;  I  am  slave  to  LOVE;  his  sway 

Is  cruel  as  the  grave.   When  he  says  Go ! 

I  go;  when  he  says  Come!  I  come.   I  know 

No  law  but  his.   When  he  says  SlayJ  I  slay. 
As  cruel  as  the  grave?   Yes —  crueler: 

Cruel  as  light  that  pours  its  stinging  flood 

Across  the  dark,  and  makes  an  anguished  stir 
Of  life;  cruel  as  life  that  sends  through  blood 

Of  mortal  the  immortal  pang  and  spur; 

Cruel  as  thy  remorseless  maidenhood. 

INTERLUDE 

THE  cloud  was  thick  that  hid  the  sun  from  sight 

And  over  all  a  shadowy  roof  outspread, 

Making  the  day  dim  with  another  night  — 

Not  dark  like  that  which  past,  but  O,  more  dread 

For  the  clear  sunlight  that  had  gone  before 

And  prophecy  of  that  which  yet  should  be. 

Like  snow  at  night  the  wind-blown  hills  of  sand 

Shone  with  an  inward  gleam  far  down  the  land: 

Beneath  the  lowering  sky  black  was  the  sea 

Across  whose  waves  a  bird  came  flying  low,  — 

Borne  swift  on  the  wind  with  wing-beat  halt  and  slow,  — 


12  THE  NEW  DAY 

From  out  the  dull  east  toward  the  foamy  shore. 
There  was  an  awful  waiting  in  the  earth 
As  if  a  mystery  greatened  to  its  birth. 
Tho'  late  it  seemed,  the  day  was  just  begun 
When  lo!  at  last,  the  many-colored  bow 
Stood  in  the  heavens  over  against  the  sun. 


PART   III 

I  — "THE  PALLID  WATCHER  OF  THE 
EASTERN  SKIES" 

THE  pallid  watcher  of  the  eastern  skies 
Who,  through  the  suffering  night,  did  wait  forlorn, 
When  comes  the  first  faint  purple  of  the  morn 
Waiteth  no  longer.   To  his  happy  eyes 

The  promised  near  the  promise  following  flies, 
Nor  is  his  soul  with  sullen  anguish  torn, 
Nor  curseth  he  the  day  when  he  was  born. 
From  the  damp  ground  he  doth  in  wonder  rise, 

Firm  set  his  face  against  the  gathering  glory  — 
So  to  be  sure  that  this,  at  last,  is  this, 
And  not  the  ancient,  bitter-lying  story. 

And  now  he  prays  for  strength  to  bear  the  bliss, 
While,  bending  o'er  the  mountain,  red  and  hoary, 
The  morning  crowns  him  with  a  golden  kiss. 

II— "MY   LOVE   FOR   THEE   DOTH   MARCH 
LIKE  ARMED   MEN" 

MY  love  for  thee  doth  march  like  armed  men, 
Against  a  queenly  city  they  would  take. 
Along  the  army's  front  its  banners  shake; 
Across  the  mountain  and  the  sun-smit  plain 


WHAT  WOULD   I   WIN   THEE   TO?  13 

It  stedfast  sweeps  as  sweeps  the  stedfast  rain ; 

And  now  the  trumpet  makes  the  still  air  quake, 

And  now  the  thundering  cannon  doth  awake 

Echo  on  echo,  echoing  loud  again. 
But,  lo!  the  conquest  higher  than  bard  e'er  sung: 

Instead  of  answering  cannon,  proud  surrender! 

Joyful  the  iron  gates  are  open  flung 
And,  for  the  conqueror,  welcome  gay  and  tender ! 

O,  bright  the  invader's  path  with  tribute  flowers, 

While  comrade  flags  flame  forth  on  wall  and  towers ! 

Ill— "WHAT  WOULD  I  SAVE  THEE  FROM?" 

WHAT  would  I  save  thee  from,  dear  heart,  dear  heart  ? 

Not  from  what  Heaven  may  send  thee  of  its  pain ; 

Not  from  fierce  sunshine  or  the  scathing  rain : 

The  pang  of  pleasure;  passion's  wound  and  smart; 
Not  from  the  long,  glad  anguish  of  thine  art; 

Nor  loss  of  faithful  friends,  nor  any  gain 

Of  growth  by  grief;  I  would  not  thee  restrain 

From  needful  death.   But  O,  thou  other  part 
Of  me !  —  through  whom  the  whole  world  I  behold, 

As  through  the  blue  I  see  the  stars  above ! 

In  whom  the  world  I  find,  hid  fold  on  fold! 
Thee  would  I  save  from  this  —  nay,  do  not  move; 

Fear  not,  it  may  not  flash,  the  air  is  cold; 

Save  thee  from  this  —  the  lightning  of  my  love. 

IV— "WHAT  WOULD  I  WIN  THEE  TO?" 

WHAT  would  I  win  thee  to  ?  dear  heart  and  true ! 
A  thought  of  bliss,  a  thornless  life  ?  Ah  no ! 
Through  weeping  pain,  Love,  I  would  let  thee  go; 
Through  weary  days  and  widowed  nights;  yea,  through 


14  THE  NEW  DAY 

The  Valley  of  the  Shadow,  without  rue, 

If  thou  couldst  gain  the  goal,  Love,  even  so. 
I  would  not  win  thee  to  a  fruitful  woe; 
To  best  of  earth  or  best  beyond  the  blue. 

And  most  of  all  would  thy  true  lover  scorn 
To  win  thee  to  himself;  thou  shalt  be  free 
To  have  or  hate!   But  O,  my  golden  morn! 

Behold  thy  lover's  passionate  bravery  — 
Mighty,  unresting,  stedfast,  heaven-born  — 
To  win  thee  to  the  light,  which  is  —  to  thee ! 

V— "I  WILL   BE  BRAVE   FOR  THEE" 

I  WILL  be  brave  for  thee,  dear  heart;  for  thee 

My  boasted  bravery  forego.   I  will 

For  thee  be  wise,  or  lose  my  little  skill; 

Coward  or  brave;  wise,  foolish;  bond  or  free. 
No  grievous  cost  in  anything  I  see 

That  brings  thee  bliss,  or  only  keeps  thee,  still, 

In  painless  peace.   So  Heaven  thy  cup  but  fill, 

Be  empty  mine  unto  eternity! 
Corr         me,  Love,  and  let  me  touch  thy  face! 

A  .-ne,  Love;  breathe  on  me  thy  dear  breath! 

K,        m  me,  Love,  to  some  far  hiding-place, 
If  thy  one  thought  of  me  or  hindereth 

Or  hurteth  thy  sweet  soul  —  then  grant  me  grace 

To  be  forgotten,  tho'  that  grace  be  death ! 

VI— "LOVE    ME    NOT,    LOVE,    FOR    THAT   I 
FIRST  LOVED  THEE" 

LOVE  me  not,  Love,  for  that  I  first  loved  thee; 
Nor  love  me,  Love,  for  thy  sweet  pity's  sake, 
In  knowledge  of  the  mortal  pain  and  ache 
Which  is  the  fruit  of  love's  blood-veined  tree. 


BODY    AND    SOUL  15 

Let  others  for  my  love  give  love  to  me; 
From  other  souls,  O,  gladly  will  I  take, 
This  burning,  heart-dry  thirst  of  love  to  slake, 
What  seas  of  human  pity  there  may  be ! 

Nay,  nay,  I  care  no  more  how  love  may  grow, 
So  that  I  hear  thee  answer  to  my  call; 
Love  me  because  my  piteous  tears  do  flow, 

Or  that  my  love  for  thee  did  first  befall. 
Love  me  or  late  or  early,  fast  or  slow  — 
But  love  me,  Love,  for  love  is  all  in  all ! 

VII  — BODY  AND   SOUL 


O,  THOU  my  Love,  love  first  my  lonely  soul! 
Then  shall  this  too  unworthy  body  of  mine 
Be  loved  by  right  and  accident  divine. 
Forget  the  flesh,  that  the  pure  spirit's  goal 

May  be  the  spirit;  let  that  stand  the  whole 
Of  what  thou  lov'st  in  me.   So  will  the  shine 
Of  soul  that  strikes  on  soul  make  fair  aqd  *"ne 
This  earthy  tenement ;  thou  shalt  extol, 

The  inner,  that  the  outer  lovelier  seem. 

Thy  lover,  who  thy  love  implores,  doth  fear 
No  deadlier  foe  than  the  impassioned  dream 

Should  drive  thee  to  him,  and  should  hold  thee  near 
Near  to  the  body,  not  the  soul  of  him: 
Love  first  my  soul  and  then  both  will  be  dear. 


But,  Love,  for  me  thy  body  was  the  first. 
One  day  I  wandered  idly  through  the  town, 
Then  entered  a  cathedral's  silence  brown 
Which  sudden  thrilled  with  a  strange  heavenly  burst 


1 6  THE  NEW  DAY 

Of  light  and  music.   Lo !  that  traveler  durst 
Do  nothing  now  but  worship  and  fall  down. 
He  thought  to  rest,  as  doth  some  tired  clown 
Who  sinks  in  longed-for  sleep,  but  there  immersed 

Finds  restless  vision  on  vision  of  beauty  rare. 
Moved  by  thy  body's  outer  majesty 
I  entered  in  thy  silent,  sacred  shrine; 

'T  was  then,  all  suddenly  and  unaware, 
Thou  didst  reveal,  O,  maiden  Love !  to  me, 
This  beautiful,  singing,  holy  soul  of  thine. 

VIII— "THY    LOVER,    LOVE,    WOULD    HAVE 
SOME  NOBLER  WAY" 

THY  lover,  Love,  would  have  some  nobler  way 
To  tell  his  love,  his  noble  love  to  tell, 
Than  rhymes  set  ringing  like  a  silver  bell. 
O,  he  would  lead  an  army,  great  and  gay, 

From  conquering  to  conquer,  day  by  day! 
And  when  the  walls  of  a  proud  citadel 
At  summons  of  his  guns  far-echoing  fell  — 
That  thunder  to  his  Love  should  murmuring  say: 

Thee  onfy  lo  I  love,  dear  Love  of  mine! 
And  while  men  cried:  Behold  how  brave  a  fight! 
She  should  read  well,  O,  well!  each  new  emprize: 

This  to  her  lips,  this  to  my  lady's  eyes! 

And  tho'  the  world  were  conquered,  line  on  line, 
Still  would  his  love  be  speechless,  day  and  night. 

IX— LOVE'S  JEALOUSY 

OF  other  men  I  know  no  jealousy, 
Nor  of  the  maid  who  holds  thee  close,  O,  close! 
But  of  the  June-red,  summer-scented  rose, 
And  of  the  barred  and  golden  sunset  sky 


ONCE   ONLY  17 

That  wins  the  soul  of  thee  through  thy  deep  eye; 
And  of  the  breeze  by  thee  beloved,  that  goes 
O'er  thy  dear  hair  and  brow;  the  song  that  flows 
Into  thy  heart  of  hearts,  where  it  may  die. 

I  would  I  were  one  moment  that  sweet  show 
Of  flower;  or  breeze  beloved  that  toucheth  all; 
Or  sky  that  through  the  summer  eve  doth  burn. 

I  would  I  were  the  song  thou  lovest  so, 

At  sound  of  me  to  have  thine  eyelids  fall ;  — 
But  I  would  then  to  something  human  turn. 

X  — LOVE'S  MONOTONE 

THOU  art  so  used,  Love,  to  thine  own  bird's  song,  — 
Sung  to  thine  ear  in  love's  low  monotone, 
Sung  to  thee  only,  Love,  to  thee  alone 
Of  all  the  listening  world,  —  that  I  among 

My  doubts  find  this  the  leader  of  the  throng: 
Haply  the  music  hath  accustomed  grown 
And  no  more  music  is  to  thee;  my  own 
Too  faithful  argument  works  its  own  wrong. 

Love,  Love,  and  must  I  learn  for  thy  sweet  sake 
The  art  of  silence?  —  Ah,  then  hide  the  light 
Of  thy  dear  countenance,  lest  the  music  wake! 

Yet  should  thy  bird  at  last  fall  silent  quite, 
Would  not  thy  heart  an  unused  sorrow  take? 
Think  not  of  me  but  of  thyself  to-night. 

XI— "ONCE   ONLY" 

ONCE  only,  Love,  may  love's  sweet  song  be  sung; 
But  once,  Love,  at  our  feet  love's  flower  is  flung; 
Once,  Love,  once  only,  Love,  can  we  be  young; 
Say  shall  we  love,  dear  Love,  or  shall  we  hate! 


1 8  THE  NEW  DAY 

Once  only,  Love,  will  burn  the  blood-red  fire; 
But  once  awakeneth  the  wild  desire; 
Love  pleadeth  long,  but  what  if  love  should  tire! 
Now  shall  we  love,  dear  Love,  or  shall  we  wait! 

The  day  is  short,  the  evening  cometh  fast; 
The  time  of  choosing,  Love,  will  soon  be  past; 
The  outer  darkness  falleth,  Love,  at  last; 

Love,  let  us  love  ere  it  be  late  —  too  late ! 

XII  —  DENIAL 

WHEN  some  new  thought  of  love  in  me  is  born, 
Then  swift  I  seek  a  token  fair  and  meet 
That  may  unblamed  thy  blessed  vision  greet ; 
Whether  it  be  a  rose,  not  bloodless  torn 

From  that  June  tree  which  hideth  many  a  thorn, 
Or  but  a  simple,  loving  message,  sweet 
With  summer's  heart  and  mine,  —  these  at  thy  feet 
I  straightway  fling;  but  all  with  maiden  scorn 

Thou  spurnest.  What  to  thee  is  token  or  sign, 
Who  dost  deny  the  thing  wherefor  it  stands! 
Then  I  seem  foolish  in  my  sight  and  thine, 

Like  one  who  eager  proffers  empty  hands. 
Thou  only  callest  these  my  gifts  unfine, 
While  men  are  praising  them  in  distant  lands. 

XIII— "ONCE   WHEN   WE   WALKED   WITHIN 
A   SUMMER  FIELD" 

ONCE  when  we  walked  within  a  summer  field 
I  pluckt  the  flower  of  immortality, 
And  said,  "  Dear  Love  of  mine,  I  give  to  thee 
This  flower  of  flowers  of  all  the  round  year's  yield!" 


7  ) 

J 

LISTENING    TO   MUSIC  IQ 

'T  was  then  thou  stood'st,  and  with  one  hand  didst 
shield 

Thy  sun-dazed  eyes,  and,  flinging  the  other  free, 

Spurned  from  thee  that  white  blossom  utterly. 

But,  Love,  the  immortal  cannot  so  be  killed. 
The  generations  shall  behold  thee  stand 

Against  that  western  glow  in  grass  dew-wet  — 

Lord  of  my  life,  and  lady  of  the  land. 
Nor  maid  nor  lover  shall  the  world  forget, 

Nor  that  disdainful  wafture  of  thy  hand. 

Thou  scornful !  sun  and  flower  shall  find  thee  yet. 

XIV  —  SONG 

I  LOVE  her  gentle  forehead, 

And  I  love  her  tender  hair; 
I  love  her  cool,  white  arms, 

And  her  neck  where  it  is  bare. 

I  love  the  smell  of  her  garments; 

I  love  the  touch  of  her  hands; 
I  love  the  sky  above  her, 

And  the  very  ground  where  she  stands. 

I  love  her  doubting  and  anguish; 

I  love  the  lovejshe  withholds; 
I  love  my  love  that  loveth  her 

And  anew  her  being  molds. 

XV  — LISTENING  TO  MUSIC 

WHEN  on  that  joyful  sea 

Where  billow  on  billow  breaks;  where  swift  waves  follow 

Waves,  and  hollow  calls  to  hollow; 

Where  sea-birds  swirl  and  swing, 


2O  THE  NEW  DAY 

And  winds  through  the  rigging  shrill  and  sing; 

Where  night  is  one  vast  starless  shade; 

Where  thy  soul  not  afraid, 

Tho'  all  alone  unlonely, 

Wanders  and  wavers,  wavers  wandering; 

On  that  accursed  sea 

One  moment  only, 

Forget  one  moment,  Love,  thy  fierce  content; 

Back  let  thy  soul  be  bent  — 

Think  back,  dear  Love,  O  Love,  think  back  to  me! 

XVI— "A  SONG  OF  THE  MAIDEN  MORN" 

A  SONG  of  the  maiden  morn, 
A  song  for  my  little  maid, 
Of  the  silver  sunlight  born ! 

But  I  am  afraid,  afraid, 
When  I  come  my  maid  may  be 
Nothing,  there,  but  a  shade. 

But  O,  her  shadow  is  more  to  me 
Than  the  shadowless  light  of  eternity ! 

XVII  — WORDS  IN  ABSENCE 

I  WOULD  that  my  words  were  as  my  fingers, 

So  that  my  Love  might  feel  them  move 
Slowly  over  her  brow,  as  lingers 

The  sunset  wind  o'er  the  world  of  its  love. 
I  would  that  my  words  were  as  the  beating 
Of  her  own  heart,  that  keeps  repeating 

My  name  through  the  livelong  day  and  the  night; 
And  when  my  Love  her  lover  misses,  — 

Longs  for  and  loves  in  the  dark  and  the  light,  — 


THISTLE-DOWN  21 

I  would  that  my  words  were  as  my  kisses. 
I  would  that  my  words  her  life  might  fill  — 

Be  to  her  earth,  and  air,  and  skies. 
I  would  that  my  words  were  husht  and  still  — 

Lost  in  the  light  of  her  eyes. 

XVIII  — SONG 

THE  birds  were  singing,  the  skies  were  gay; 
I  looked  from  the  window  on  meadow  and  wood, 
On  green,  green  grass  that  the  sun  made  white; 
Beyond  the  river  the  mountain  stood  — 

Blue  was  the  mountain,  the  river  was  bright; 
I  looked  on  the  land  and  it  was  not  good, 
For  my  own  dear  Love  she  had  flown  away. 

XIX  —  THISTLE-DOWN 

FLY,  thistle-down,  fly 

From  my  lips  to  the  lips  that  I  love! 

Fly  through  the  morning  light, 

Flee  through  the  shadowy  night, 

Over  the  sea  and  the  land, 

Quick  as  the  lark 

Through  twilight  and  dark, 

Through  lightning  and  thunder; 

Till  no  longer  asunder 

We  stand; 

For  thy  touch  like  the  lips  of  her  lover 

Moves  her  being  to  mine  — 

We  are  one  in  a  swoon  divine! 

Fly,  thistle-down,  fly 

From  my  lips  to  the  lips  that  I  love! 


22  THE  NEW   DAY 

XX—  "O   SWEET  WILD   ROSES   THAT   BUD 
AND   BLOW" 

O  SWEET  wild  roses  that  bud  and  blow 
Along  the  way  that  my  Love  may  go; 
O  moss-green  rocks  that  touch  her  dress, 
And  grass  that  her  dear  feet  may  press; 

O  maple-tree  whose  brooding  shade 
For  her  a  summer  tent  has  made; 
O  goldenrod  and  brave  sunflower 
That  flame  before  my  maiden's  bower; 

O  butterfly  on  whose  light  wings 
The  golden  summer  sunshine  clings; 
O  birds  that  flit  o'er  wheat  and  wall, 
And  from  cool  hollows  pipe  and  call; 

O  falling  water  whose  distant  roar 
Sounds  like  the  waves  upon  the  shore; 
O  winds  that  down  the  valley  sweep, 
And  lightnings  from  the  clouds  that  leap; 

O  skies  that  bend  above  the  hills; 

O  gentle  rains  and  babbling  rills; 

O  moon  and  sun  that  beam  and  burn  — 

Keep  safe  my  Love  till  I  return! 

XXI  — THE   RIVER 

I  KNOW  thou  art  not  that  brown  mountain-side, 
Nor  the  pale  mist  that  lies  along  the  hills 
And  with  white  joy  the  deepening  valley  fills; 
Nor  yet  the  solemn  river  moving  wide 


SONG  23 

Into  that  valley,  where  the  hills  abide 

But    whence    those    morning   clouds    on    noiseless 
wheels 

Shall  lingering  lift  and,  as  the  moonlight  steals 

From  out  the  heavens,  so  into  the  heavens  shall 

glide. 
I  know  thou  art  not  this  gray  rock  that  looms 

Above  the  water,  fringed  with  scarlet  vine ; 

Nor  flame  of  burning  meadow;  nor  the  sedge 
That  sways  and  trembles  at  the  river's  edge. 

But  through  all  these,  dear  heart !  to  me  there  comes 

Some  melancholy,  absent  look  of  thine. 

XXII  — THE  LOVER'S  LORD  AND   MASTER 

I  PRAY  thee,  dear,  think  not  alone  of  me, 

But  sometimes  think  of  my  great  master,  LOVE; 
His  faithful  slave  he  is  so  far  above 
That  for  his  sake  I  would  forgotten  be  — 

Tho'  well  I  know  that  hidden  thus  from  thee 
Not  far  away  my  image  then  might  rove, 
And  his  sweet,  heavenly  countenance  would  move 
Ever  thy  soul  to  gentler  charity. 

So  when  thy  lover's  self  leaps  from  his  song 
Thou  him  may  love  not  less  for  his  fair  Lord. 
But  that  thy  love  for  me  grow  never  small 

(As  bow  long  bent  twangs  not  the  arrowed  cord, 
And  he  doth  lose  his  star  who  looks  too  long), 
Sometimes,  dear  heart,  think  not  of  me  at  all. 

XXIII  — SONG 

MY  love  grew  with  the  growing  night, 
And  dawned  with  the  new  daylight. 


24  THE  NEW  DAY 

XXIV— "A  NIGHT  OF  STARS  AND  DREAMS" 

A  NIGHT  of  stars  and  dreams,  of  dreams  and  sleep; 

A  waking  into  another  empty  day  — 

But  not  unlovely  all,  for  then  I  say: 

"  To-morrow ! "  Through  the  hours  this  light  doth  creep 
Higher  in  the  heavens,  as  down  the  heavenly  steep 

Sinks  the  slow  sun.   Another  evening  gray, 

Made  glorious  by  the  morn  that  comes  that  way; 

Another  night,  and  then  To-day  doth  leap 
Upon  the  world !   O,  quick  the  hours  do  fly, 

Of  that  new  day  which  brings  the  moment  when 

We  meet  at  last!   Swift  up  the  shaking  sky 
Rushes  the  sun  from  out  its  dismal  den; 

And  then  the  wisht  for  time  doth  yearn  more  nigh ; 

A  white  robe  glimmering  in  the  dark  —  and  then ! 


XXV  — A  BIRTHDAY  SONG 

I  THOUGHT  this  day  to  bring  to  thee 
A  flower  that  grows  on  the  red  rose  tree. 
I  searched  the  branches  —  O,  despair! 
Of  roses  every  branch  was  bare. 

I  thought  to  sing  thee  a  birthday  song 
As  wild  as  my  love,  as  deep  and  strong. 
The  song  took  wing  like  a  frightened  bird, 
And  its  music  my  maiden  never  heard. 

But,  Love,  the  flower  and  the  song  divine 
One  day  of  the  year  will  yet  be  thine; 
And  thou  shalt  be  glad  when  the  rose  I  bring, 
And  weep  for  joy  at  the  song  I  sing. 


THE    SMILE    OF   HER   I   LOVE  25 

XXVI— "WHAT    CAN   LOVE    DO    FOR   THEE, 
LOVE?" 

WHAT  can  love  do  for  thee,  Love? 

Can  it  make  the  green  fields  greener; 

Bluer  the  skies,  and  bluer 

The  eyes  of  the  blue-eyed  flowers? 

Can  it  make  the  May-day  showers 

More  warm  and  sweet;  serener 

The  heavens  after  the  rain  ? 

The  sunset's  radiant  splendor 

More  exquisite  and  tender? 

The  Northern  Star  more  sure  ? 

Can  it  take  the  pang  from  pain  ? 

(O  Love,  remember  the  curtain 

Of  cloud  that  lifted  last  night 

And  showed  the  silver  light 

Of  a  star!)   Can  it  make  more  certain 

The  heart  of  the  heart  of  all, 

The  good  that  works  at  the  root  — 

The  singing  soul  of  love 

That  throbs  in  flower  and  fruit, 

In  man  and  earth  and  brute, 

In  hell,  and  heaven  above? 

Can  its  low  voice  musical 

Make  dear  the  day  and  the  night? 

XXVII— "THE   SMILE   OF  HER  I    LOVE" 

THE  smile  of  her  I  love  is  like  the  dawn 
Whose  touch  makes  Memnon  sing. 
O,  see  where  wide  the  golden  sunlight  flows  — 
The  barren  desert  blossoms  as  the  rose ! 


26  THE  NEW  DAY 

The  smile  of  her  I  love  —  when  that  is  gone, 

O'er  all  the  world  Night  spreads  her  shadowy  wing. 


XXVIII  —  FRANCESCA  AND  PAOLO 

WITHIN  the  second  dolorous  circle  where 

The  lost  are  whirled,  lamenting  —  thou  and  I 
Stood,  Love,  to-day  with  Dante.   Silently 
We  looked  upon  the  black  and  trembling  air; 

When  lo!  from  out  that  darkness  of  despair 
Two  shadows,  light  upon  the  wind,  drew  nigh, 
Whose  very  motion  seemed  to  breathe  a  sigh  — 
And  there  Francesca,  and  her  lover  there. 

These  when  we  saw,  the  wounds  whereat  they  bled, 
Their  love  which  was  not  with  their  bodies  slain  — • 
These  when  we  saw,  great  were  the  tears  we  shed; 

As,  Love,  for  thee  and  me  love's  tears  shall  rain  — 
The  mortal  agony;  the  nameless  dread; 
The  longing,  and  the  passion,  and  the  pain. 


XXIX  — THE  UNKNOWN  WAY 

Two  travelers  met  upon  a  plain 

Where  two  straight,  narrow  pathways  crossed; 

They  met  and,  with  a  still  surprise, 

They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes 

And  knew  that  never,  O,  never  again! 

Could  one  from  the  other  soul  be  lost. 

But  lo!  these  narrow  pathways  lead 
Now  each  from  each  apart,  and  lo! 
In  neither  pathway  can  they  go 
Together,  in  their  new,  strange  need. 


THE   SOWER  27 

Far-off  the  purple  mountains  loom,  — 
Vague  and  far-off,  and  fixt  as  fate,  — 
Which  hide  from  sight  that  land  unknown 
Where,  ever,  like  a  carven  stone 
The  setting  sun  doth  stand  and  wait, 
And  men  cry  not :  "  Too  late !  too  late ! " 
And  sorrow  turns  to  a  golden  gloom. 
But  O,  the  long  journey  all  unled 
By  track  of  traveler  o'er  the  plain  — 
The  stony  desert,  bleak  and  rude, 
The  bruised  feet  and  the  tired  brain; 
And  O,  the  twofold  solitude, 
The  doubt,  the  danger,  and  the  dread! 

XXX  — THE   SOWER 


A  SOWER  went  forth  to  sow; 

His  eyes  were  dark  with  woe; 

He  crusht  the  flowers  beneath  his  feet, 

Nor  smelt  the  perfume,  warm  and  sweet, 

That  prayed  for  pity  everywhere. 

He  came  to  a  field  that  was  harried 

By  iron,  and  to  heaven  laid  bare; 

He  shook  the  seed  that  he  carried 

O'er  that  brown  and  bladeless  place. 

He  shook  it,  as  God  shakes  hail 

Over  a  doomed  land, 

When  lightnings  interlace 

The  sky  and  the  earth,  and  His  wand 

Of  love  is  a  thunder-flail. 

Thus  did  that  Sower  sow; 

His  seed  was  human  blood, 

And  tears  of  women  and  men. 


28  THE  NEW  DAY 

And  I,  who  near  him  stood, 
Said:  When  the  crop  comes,  then 
There  will  be  sobbing  a*nd  sighing, 
Weeping  and  wailing  and  crying, 
Flame,  and  ashes,  and  woe. 


It  was  an  autumn  day 

When  next  I  went  that  way. 

And  what,  think  you,  did  I  see, 

What  was  it  that  I  heard, 

What  music  was  in  the  air? 

The  song  of  a  sweet-voiced  bird? 

Nay  —  but  the  songs  of  many, 

Thrilled  through  with  praise  and  prayer. 

Of  all  those  voices  not  any 

Were  sad  of  memory; 

But  a  sea  of  sunlight  flowed, 

A  golden  harvest  glowed, 

And  I  said:   Thou  only  art  wise, 

God  of  the  earth  and  skies! 

And  I  praise  Thee,  again  and  again, 

For  the  Sower  whose  name  is  Pain. 


XXXI  — "WHEN  THE  LAST  DOUBT  IS 
DOUBTED" 

WHEN  the  last  doubt  is  doubted, 
The  last  black  shadow  flown; 
When  the  last  foe  is  routed; 

When  the  night  is  over  and  gone  — 
Then,  Love,  O  then!  there  will  be  rest  and  peace 
Sweet  peace  and  rest  that  never  thou  hast  known. 


INTERLUDE  2Q 

When  the  hope  that  in  thee  moveth 

Is  born  and  brought  to  sight ; 

When  past  is  the  pain  that  proveth 

The  worth  of  thy  new  delight  — 

O  then,  Love!  then  there  will  be  joy  and  peace: 

Deep  peace  and  joy,  bright  morning  after  night. 


INTERLUDE 

As  melting  snow  leaves  bare  the  mountain-side 

In  spaces  that  grow  wider  and  more  wide, 

So  melted  from  the  sky  the  cloudy  veil 

That  hid  the  face  of  sunrise.   Land  and  ledge 

And  waste  of  glittering  waters  sent  a  glare 

Back  to  the  smiting  sun.   The  trembling  air 

Lay,  sea  on  sea,  along  the  horizon's  edge; 

And  on  that  upper  ocean,  clear  as  glass, 

The  tall  ships  followed  with  deep-mirrored  sail 

Like  clouds  wind-moved  that  follow  and  that  pass; 

And  on  that  upper  ocean,  far  and  fair, 

Floated  lew  islands  all  unseen  before. 

Green  grew  the  ocean  shaken  through  with  light, 

And  blue  the  heavens  faint-fleckt  with  plumy  white. 

Like  pennants  on  the  wind,  from  o'er  the  rocks 

The  birds  whirled  seaward  in  shrill-piping  flocks  — 

And  through  the  dawn,  as  through  the  shadowy  night, 

The  sound  of  waves  that  break  upon  the  shore! 


30  THE  NEW  DAY 


PART  IV 

I  —  SONG 

LOVE,  Love,  my  love, 

The  best  things  are  the  truest! 
When  the  earth  lies  shadowy  dark  below, 

O  then  the  heavens  are  bluest ! 
Deep  the  blue  of  the  sky, 

And  sharp  the  gleam  of  the  stars, 
And  O,  more  bright  against  the  night 

The  Aurora's  crimson  bars! 

II  — THE  MIRROR 

THAT  I  should  love  thee  seemeth  meet  and  wise, 
So  beautiful  thou  art  that  he  were  mad 
Who  in  thy  countenance  no  pleasure  had; 
Who  felt  not  the  still  music  of  thine  eyes 

Fall  on  his  forehead,  as  the  evening  skies 
The  music  of  the  stars  feel  and  are  glad. 
But  o'er  my  mind  one  doubt  still  cast  a  shade 
Till  in  my  thought  this  answer  did  arise: 

That  thou  shouldst  love  me  is  not  wise  or  meet, 
For  like  thee,  Love,  I  am  not  beautiful; 
And  yet  I  think  that  haply  in  my  face 

Thou  findest  a  true  beauty;  —  this  poor,  dull, 
Disfigured  mirror  dimly  may  repeat 
A  little  part  of  thy  most  heavenly  grace. 

Ill  — LIKENESS  IN  UNLIKENESS 

WE  are  alike,  and  yet,  —  O  strange  and  sweet !  — 
Each  in  the  other  difference  discerns; 


ALL   IN   ONE  31 

So  the  torn  strands  the  maiden's  finger  turns 
Opposing  ways,  when  they  again  do  meet 

Clasp  each  in  each,  as  flame  clasps  into  heat ; 
So  when  this  hand  on  this  cool  bosom  burns, 
Each  sense  is  lost  in  the  other.   So  two  urns 
Do,  side  by  side,  the  selfsame  lines  repeat, 

But  various  color  gives  a  lovelier  grace, 
And  each  by  contrast  still  more  fine  has  grown. 
Thus,  Love,  it  was,  I  did  forget  thy  face 

As  more  and  more  to  me  thy  soul  was  known; 
Vague  in  my  mind  it  grew  till,  in  its  place, 
Another  came  I  knew  not  from  my  own. 


IV— SONG 

NOT  from  the  whole  wide  world  I  chose  thee  — 
Sweetheart,  light  of  the  land  and  the  sea ! 

The  wide,  wide  world  could  not  inclose  thee, 
For  thou  art  the  whole  wide  world  to  me. 


V  — ALL  IN  ONE 

ONCE  when  a  maiden  maidenly  went  by, 
Or  when  I  found  some  wonder  in  the  grass, 
Or  when  a  purple  sunset  slow  did  pass, 
Or  a  great  star  rushed  silent  through  the  sky; 

Once  when  I  heard  a  singing  ecstasy, 

Or  saw  the  moon's  face  in  the  river's  glass  — 
Then  I  remembered  that  for  me,  alas! 
This  beauty  must  for  ever  and  ever  die. 

But  now  I  may  thus  sorrow  never  more; 

From  fleeting  beauty  thou  hast  torn  the  pall; 
Of  beauty,  Love,  thou  art  the  soul  and  core; 


32  THE  NEW  DAY 

And  tho'  the  empty  shadow  fading  fall,  — 

Tho'  lesser  birds  lift  up  their  wings  and  soar,  — 
In  having  thee  alone,  Love,  I  have  all. 

VI— "I  COUNT  MY  TIME  BY  TIMES  THAT 
I  MEET  THEE" 

I  COUNT  my  time  by  times  that  I  meet  thee; 

These  are  my  yesterdays,  my  morrows,  noons, 

And  nights;  these  my  old  moons  and  my  new  moons 

Slow  fly  the  hours,  or  fast  the  hours  do  flee, 
If  thou  art  far  from  or  art  near  to  me; 

If  thou  art  far,  the  bird  tunes  are  no  tunes; 

If  thou  art  near,  the  wintry  days  are  Junes  — 

Darkness  is  light,  and  sorrow  cannot  be. 
Thou  art  my  dream  come  true,  and  thou  my  dream; 

The  air  I  breathe,  the  world  wherein  I  dwell ; 

My  journey's  end  thou  art,  and  thou  the  way; 
;    Thou  art  what  I  would  be,  yet  only  seem; 

Thou  art  my  heaven  and  thou  art  my  hell; 

Thou  art  my  ever-living  judgment-day. 

VII— SONG 

YEARS  have  flown  since  I  knew  thee  first, 
And  I  know  thee  as  water  is  known  of  thirst; 
Yet  I  knew  thee  of  old  at  the  first  sweet  sight, 
And  thou  art  strange  to  me,  Love,  to-night. 

VIII  — THE  SEASONS 

O  STRANGE  Spring  days,  when  from  the  shivering 

ground 

Love  riseth,  wakening  from  his  dreamful  swound 
And,  frightened,  in  the  stream  his  face  hath  found! 


THE   VIOLIN  33 

O  Summer  days;  when  Love  hath  grown  apace, 

And  feareth  not  to  look  upon  Love's  face, 

And  lightnings  burn  where  earth  and  sky  embrace ! 

O  Autumn,  when  the  winds  are  dank  and  dread, 
How  brave  above  the  dying  and  the  dead 
The  conqueror,  Love,  uplifts  his  banner  red ! 

O  Winter,  when  the  earth  lies  white  and  chill! 
Now  only  hath  strong  Love  his  perfect  will, 
Whom  heat,  nor  cold,  nor  death  can  bind  nor  kill. 


IX— "SUMMER'S  RAIN  AND  WINTER'S 
SNOW" 

SUMMER'S  rain  and  winter's  snow 
With  the  seasons  come  and  go; 

Shine  and  shower; 

7 

Tender  bud  and  perfect  flower; 
Silver  blossom,  golden  fruit; 

Song  and  lute, 

With  their  inward  sound  of  pain ; 
Winter's  snow  and  summer's  rain; 

Frost  and  fire; 

Joy  beyond  the  heart's  desire  — 
And  our  June  comes  round  again. 

X  — THE  VIOLIN 

BEFORE  the  listening  world  behold  him  stand; 
The  warm  air  trembles  with  his  passionate  play; 
Their  cheers  shower  round  him  like  the  ocean  spray 
Round  one  who  waits  upon  the  stormy  strand. 

Their  smiles,  sighs,  tears  all  are  at  his  command ; 


34  THE  NEW  DAY 

And  now  they  hear  the  trump  of  judgment-day, 
And  now  one  silver  note  to  heaven  doth  stray 
And  fluttering  fall  upon  the  golden  sand. 

But  like  the  murmur  of  the  distant  sea 

Their  loud  applause,  and  far  off,  faint,  and  weak 
Sounds  his  own  music  to  him,  wild  and  free  — 

Far  from  the  soul  of  music  that  doth  speak 
In  wordless  wail  and  lyric  ecstasy 
From  that  good  viol  prest  against  his  cheek. 

XI—  "O  MIGHTY  RIVER,  TRIUMPHING  TO 
THE   SEA" 

0  MIGHTY  river,  triumphing  to  the  sea, 
Strong,  calm,  and  solemn  as  thy  mountains  be! 
Poets  have  sung  thy  ever-living  power, 

Thy  wintry  day,  and  summer  sunset  hour; 

Have  told  how  rich  thou  art,  how  broad,  how  deep; 

What  commerce  thine,  how  many  myriads  reap 

The  harvest  of  thy  waters.   They  have  sung 

Thy  moony  nights,  when  every  shadow  flung 

From  cliff  or  pine  is  peopled  with  dim  ghosts 

Of  settlers,  old-world  fairies,  or  the  hosts 

Of  savage  warriors  that  once  plowed  thy  waves  — 

Now  hurrying  to  the  dance  from  hidden  graves; 

The  waving  outline  of  thy  wooded  mountains, 

Thy  populous  towns  that  stretch  from  forest  fountains 

On  either  side,  far  to  the  salty  main, 

Like  golden  coins  alternate  on  a  chain. 

Thou  pathway  of  the  empire  of  the  North, 
Thy  praises  through  the  earth  have  traveled  forth! 

1  hear  thee  praised  as  one  who  hears  the  shout 
That  follows  when  a  hero  from  the  rout 

Of  battle  issues:  "Lo,  how  brave  is  he, 


AFTER  MANY  DAYS  35 

How  noble,  proud,  and  beautiful!"   But  she 

Who  knows  him  best:  "How  tender!"   So  thou  art 

The  river  of  love  to  me! 

—  Heart  of  my  heart, 

Dear  love  and  bride  —  is  it  not  so  indeed  ?  — 
Among  your  treasures  keep  this  new-pluckt  reed. 

XII  — "MY  SONGS  ARE  ALL   OF  THEE" 

MY  songs  are  all  of  thee,  what  tho'  I  sing 
Of  morning  when  the  stars  are  yet  in  sight, 
Of  evening,  or  the  melancholy  night, 
Of  birds  that  o'er  the  reddening  waters  wing; 

Of  song,  of  fire,  of  winds,  or  mists  that  cling 
To  mountain-tops,  of  winter  all  in  white, 
Of  rivers  that  toward  ocean  take  their  flight, 
Of  summer  when  the  rose  is  blossoming. 

I  think  no  thought  that  is  not  thine,  no  breath 
Of  life  I  breathe  beyond  thy  sanctity; 
Thou  art  the  voice  that  silence  uttereth, 

And  of  all  sound  thou  art  the  sense.  From  thee 
The  music  of  my  song,  and  what  it  saith 
Is  but  the  beat  of  thy  heart,  throbbed  through  me. 

XIII  — AFTER  MANY  DAYS 

DEAR  heart,  I  would  that  after  many  days, 
When  we  are  gone,  true  lovers  in  a  book 
Might  find  these  faithful  songs  of  ours.    "  O  look ! " 
I  hear  him  murmur  while  he  straightway  lays 

His  finger  on  the  page,  and  she  doth  raise 
Her  eyes  to  his.   Then,  like  the  winter  brook 
From  whose  young  limbs  a  sudden  summer  shook 
The  fetters,  love  flows  on  in  sunny  ways. 


36  THE  NEW  DAY 

I  would  that  when  we  are  no  more,  dear  heart, 
The  world  might  hold  thy  unforgotten  name 
Inviolate  in  these  eternal  rhymes. 

I  would  have  poets  say:  "Let  not  the  art 

Wherewith  they  loved  be  lost !   To  us  the  blame 
Should  love  grow  less  in  these  our  modern  times." 


XIV— WEAL  AND   WOE 

O  HIGHEST,  strongest,  sweetest  woman-soul! 

Thou  holdest  in  the  compass  of  thy  grace 

All  the  strange  fate  and  passion  of  thy  race; 

Of  the  old,  primal  curse  thou  knowest  the  whole. 
Thine  eyes,  too  wise,  are  heavy  with  the  dole, 

The  doubt,  the  dread  of  all  this  human  maze; 

Thou  in  the  virgin  morning  of  thy  days 

Hast  felt  the  bitter  waters  o'er  thee  roll. 
Yet  thou  knowest,  too,  the  terrible  delight, 

The  still  content,  and  solemn  ecstasy; 

Whatever  sharp,  sweet  bliss  thy  kind  may  know. 
Thy  spirit  is  deep  for  pleasure  as  for  woe  — 

Deep  as  the  rich,  dark-caverned,  awful  sea 

That   the   keen-winded,  glimmering   dawn   makes 
white. 


XV— "O,  LOVE  IS  NOT  A  SUMMER  MOOD" 

O,  LOVE  is  not  a  summer  mood, 
Nor  flying  phantom  of  the  brain, 

Nor  youthful  fever  of  the  blood, 

Nor  dream,  nor  fate,  nor  circumstance. 
Love  is  not  born  of  blinded  chance, 
Nor  bred  in  simple  ignorance. 


HE   KNOWS   NOT   THE  PATH   OF   DUTY      37 

Love  is  the  flower  of  maidenhood; 
Love  is  the  fruit  of  mortal  pain; 

And  she  hath  winter  in  her  blood. 

True  love  is  stedfast  as  the  skies, 
And  once  alight  she  never  flies; 
And  love  is  strong,  and  love  is  wise. 

XVI— "LOVE  IS  NOT  BOND  TO  ANY  MAN" 

LOVE  is  not  bond  to  any  man, 
Nor  slave  of  woman,  howso  fair. 

Love  knows  no  architect  nor  plan, 
She  is  a  lawless  wanderer, 
She  hath  no  master  over  her, 
And  loveth  not  her  worshiper. 

But  tho'  she  knoweth  law  nor  plan,  — 
Tho'  she  is  free  as  light  and  air,  — 

Love  was  a  slave  since  time  began. 

Lo,  now,  behold  a  wondrous  thing: 
Tho'  from  stone  walls  she  taketh  wing, 
Love  may  be  led  by  a  silken  string. 

XVII  — "HE  KNOWS  NOT  THE  PATH   OF 
DUTY  " 

HE  knows  not  the  path  of  duty 
Who  says  that  the  way  is  sweet; 

But  he  who  is  blind  to  the  beauty, 
And  finds  but  thorns  for  his  feet. 

He  alone  is  the  perfect  giver 

Who  swears  that  his  gift  is  naught; 

And  he  is  the  sure  receiver 

Who  gains  what  he  never  sought. 


38  THE  NEW  DAY 

Heaven  from  the  hopeless  doubter 
The  true  believer  makes; 

Against  the  darkness  outer 
The  light  God's  likeness  takes. 

Like  the  pale,  cold  moon  above  her 
With  its  heart  of  the  heart  of  fire, 

My  Love  is  the  one  true  lover, 
And  hers  is  the  soul  of  desire. 


AFTER-SONG 

THROUGH  love  to  light !   O,  wonderful  the  way 

That  leads  from  darkness  to  the  perfect  day! 

From  darkness  and  from  sorrow  of  the  night 

To  morning  that  comes  singing  o'er  the  sea. 

Through  love  to  light!   Through  light,  O  God,  to  Thee, 

Who  art  the  love  of  love,  the  eternal  light  of  light ! 


THE   CELESTIAL   PASSION 


THE  CELESTIAL  PASSION 


PRELUDE 

O  WHITE  and  midnight  sky !    O  starry  bath ! 

Wash  me  in  thy  pure,  heavenly,  crystal  flood; 

Cleanse  me,  ye  stars,  from  earthly  soil  and  scath; 

Let  not  one  taint  remain  in  spirit  or  blood! 
Receive  my  soul,  ye  burning,  awful  deeps; 

Touch  and  baptize  me  with  the  mighty  power 

That  in  ye  thrills,  while  the  dark  planet  sleeps; 

Make  me  all  yours  for  one  blest,  secret  hour! 
O  glittering  host!  O  high  angelic  choir! 

Silence  each  tone  that  with  thy  music  jars; 

Fill  me  even  as  an  urn  with  thy  white  fire 
Till  all  I  am  is  kindred  to  the  stars! 

Make  me  thy  child,  thou  infinite,  holy  night  — 

So  shall  my  days  be  steeped  in  heavenly  light! 


PART  I 

ART  AND   LIFE 

SAID  the  Poet  unto  the  Seer: 

How  shall  I  learn  to  tell 

What  I  know  of  Heaven  and  Hell? 

I  speak,  but  to  ashes  turn 

The  passions  that  in  me  burn. 

I  shout  to  the  skies,  but  I  hear 

No  answer  from  man  or  God. 


42  THE   CELESTIAL  PASSION 

Shall  I  cast  my  lyre  to  the  sod, 
Rest,  and  give  over  the  strife, 
And  sink  in  a  voiceless  life? 

Said  the  Seer  to  the  Poet :  Arise 
And  give  to  the  seas  and  the  skies 
The  message  that  in  thee  burns. 
Thrice  speak,  tho'  the  blue  sky  turns 
Deaf  ears,  and  the  ocean  spurns 
Thy  call.   Tho'  men  despise 
The  word  that  from  out  thy  heart 
Flameth;  do  thou  thy  part. 
Thrice  speak  it,  aloud,  I  say, 
Then  go,  released,  on  thy  way; 
Live  thou  deeply  and  wise; 
Suffer  as  never  before; 
Know  joy,  till  it  cuts  to  the  quick ; 
Eat  the  apple,  Life,  to  the  core. 
Be  thou  curst 

By  them  thou  hast  blest,  by  the  sick 
Whom  thou  in  thy  weakness  nursed. 
With  thy  strength  the  faint  endue; 
Be  praised  when  't  were  better  to  blame; 
In  the  home  of  thy  spirit  be  true, 
Tho'  the  voice  of  the  street  cry  shame. 
Be  silent  till  all  is  done, 
Then  return,  in  the  light  of  the  sun, 
And  once  more  sing. 
O,  then  fling 

Into  music  thy  soul !    Tell  the  seas 
Again  all  thy  thought;  O,  be  strong 
Thy  voice  as  the  voice  of  the  waves,  as  the  voice  of  the 

trees ! 

Tell  the  blast, 
That  shall  shudder  as  onward  it  flies 


THE   POET   AND   HIS   MASTER  43 

With  thy  word,  with  thy  song; 

Tell  the  skies, 

And  the  world,  that  shall  listen  at  last! 


THE  POET  AND   HIS   MASTER 

ONE  day  the  poet's  harp  lay  on  the  ground, 
Tho'  from  it  rose  a  strange  and  trembling  sound 
What  time  the  wind  swept  over  with  a  moan, 
Or,  now  and  then,  a  faint  and  tinkling  tone 
When  a  dead  leaf  fell  shuddering  from  a  tree 
And  shook  the  silent  wires  all  tremulously; 
And  near  it,  dumb  with  sorrow,  and  alone 
The  poet  sat.   His  heart  was  like  a  stone. 

Then  one  drew  near  him  who  was  robed  in  white: 

It  was  the  poet's  master;  he  had  given 

To  him  that  harp,  once  in  a  happy  night 

When  every  silver  star  that  shone  in  heaven 

Made  music  ne'er  before  was  heard  by  mortal  wight. 

And  thus  the  master  spoke :  — 

"  Why  is  thy  voice 

Silent,  O  poet  ?   Why  upon  the  grass 
Lies  thy  still  harp?  The  fitful  breezes  pass 
And  stir  the  wires,  but  the  skilled  player's  hand 
Moves  not  upon  them.   Poet,  wake!    Rejoice! 
Sing  and  arouse  the  melancholy  land!" 

"Master,  forbear.   I  may  not  sing  to-day; 
My  nearest  friend,  the  brother  of  my  heart, 
This  day  is  stricken  with  sorrow;  he  must  part 
From  her  who  loves  him.   Can  I  sing,  and  play 
Upon  the  joyous  harp,  and  mock  his  woe?" 


44  THE  CELESTIAL  PASSION 

"Alas,  and  hast  thou  then  so  soon  forgot 
The  bond  that  with  thy  gift  of  song  did  go  — 
Severe  as  fate,  fixt  and  unchangeable? 
Even  tho'  his  heart  be  sounding  its  own  knell, 
Dost  thou  not  know  this  is  the  poet's  lot: 
'Mid  sounds  of  war,  in  halcyon  times  of  peace, 
To  strike  the  ringing  wire  and  not  to  cease; 
In  hours  of  general  happiness  to  swell 
The  common  joy;  and  when  the  people  cry 
With  piteous  voice  loud  to  the  pitiless  sky, 
'T  is  his  to  frame  the  universal  prayer 
And  breathe  the  balm  of  song  upon  the  accursed  air?" 

"But  't  is  not,  O  my  master!  that  I  borrow 
The  robe  of  grief  to  deck  my  brother's  sorrow  — 
Mine  eyes  have  seen  beyond  the  veil  of  youth; 
I  know  what  Life  is,  have  caught  sight  of  Truth; 
My  heart  is  dead  within  me;  a  thick  pall 
Darkens  the  midday  sun." 

"  And  dost  thou  call 

This  sorrow?    Call  this  knowledge?   O  thou  blind 
And  ignorant!    Know,  then,  thou  yet  shalt  find, 
Ere  thy  full  days  are  numbered  'neath  the  sun, 
Thou,  in  thy  shallow  youth,  hadst  but  begun 
To  guess  what  knowledge  is,  what  grief  may  be, 
And  all  the  infinite  sum  of  human  misery; 
Shalt  find  that  for  each  drop  of  perfect  good 
Thou  payest,  at  last,  a  threefold  price  in  blood; 
What  is  most  noble  in  thee,  —  every  thought 
Highest  and  best,  —  crusht,  spat  upon,  and  brought 
To  an  open  shame;  thy  natural  ignorance 
Counted  thy  crime;  the  world  all  ruled  by  chance, 
Save  that  the  good  most  suffer;  but  above 


MORS    TRIUMPHALIS  45 

These  ills  another,  cruel,  monstrous,  worse 
Than  all  before  —  thy  pure  and  passionate  love 
Shall  bring  the  old,  immitigable  curse." 

"And  thou,  who  tell'st  me  this,  dost  bid  me  sing?" 

"I  bid  thee  sing,  even  tho'  I  have  not  told 
All  the  deep  flood  of  anguish  shall  be  rolled 
Across  thy  breast.   Nor,  Poet,  shalt  thou  bring 
From  out  those  depths  thy  grief!  Tell  to  the  wind 
Thy  private  woes,  but  not  to  human  ear, 
Save  in  the  shape  of  comfort  for  thy  kind. 
But  never  hush  thy  song,  dare  not  to  cease 
While  life  is  thine.   Haply,  'mid  those  who  hear, 
Thy  music  to  one  soul  shall  murmur  peace, 
Tho'  for  thyself  it  hath  no  power  to  cheer. 

"Then  shall  thy  still  unbroken  spirit  grow 
Strong  in  its  silent  suffering  and  more  wise; 
And,  —  as  the  drenched  and  thunder-shaken  skies 
Pass  into  golden  sunset,  —  thou  shalt  know 
An  end  of  calm,  when  evening  breezes  blow; 
And,  looking  on  thy  life  with  vision  fine, 
Shalt  see  the  shadow  of  a  hand  divine." 

MORS  TRIUMPHALIS 

i 

IN  the  hall  of  the  king  the  loud  mocking  of  many  at  one; 
While  lo !  with  his  hand  on  his  harp  the  old  bard  is  undone ! 
One  false  note,  then  he  stammers,  he  sobs  like  a  child,  he 

is  failing, 
And  the  song  that  so  bravely  began  ends  in  discord  and 

wailing. 


46  THE  CELESTIAL  PASSION 

n 

Can  it  be  it  is  they  who  make  merry,  't  is  they  taunting 
him? 

Shall  the  sun,  then,  be  scorned  by  the  planets,  the  tree 
by  the  limb ! 

These  bardlings,  these  mimics,  these  echoes,  these  shad 
ows  at  play, 

While  he  only  is  real ;  —  they  shine  but  as  motes  in  his 
day! 

m 

All  that  in  them  is  best  is  from  him ;  all  they  know  he  has 

taught; 
But  one  secret  he  never  could  teach,  and  they  never  have 

caught  — 
The  soul  of  his  songs,  that  goes  sighing  like  wind  through 

the  reeds, 
And  thrills  men,  and  moves  them  to  terror,  to  prayer, 

and  to  deeds. 

IV 

Has  the  old  poet  failed,  then  —  the  singer  forgotten  his 

art? 
Why,  't  was  he  who  once  startled  the  world  with  a  cry 

from  his  heart; 

And  he  held  it  entranced  in  a  life-song,  all  music,  all  love ; 
If  now  it  grow  faint  and  grow  still,  they  have  called  him 

above. 


Ah,  never  again  shall  we  hear  such  fierce  music  and 

sweet  — 
Surely  never  from  you,  ye  who  mock,  for  his  footstool 

unmeet; 


MORS    TRIUMPHALIS  47 

E'en  his  song  left  unsung  had  more  power  than  the  note 

ye  prolong, 
And  one   sweep  of  his  harp-strings  outpassioned  the 

hight  of  your  song. 

VI 

But  a  sound  like  the  voice  of  the  pine,  like  the  roar  of  the 

sea 
Arises.    He  breathes   now;    he    sings;  O,  again  he  is 

free. 
He  has  flung  from  his  flesh,  from  his  spirit,  their  shackles 

accurst, 
And  he  pours  all  his  heart,  all  his  life,  in  one  passionate 

burst. 

VII 

And  now  as  he  chants  those  who  listen  turn  pale,  are 

afraid; 
For  he  sings  of  a  God  that  made  all,  and  is  all  that  was 

made; 
Who  is  maker  of  love,  and  of  hate,  and  of  peace,  and  of 

strife ; 
Smiles  a  heaven    into  being;  frowns  a  hell,   that   yet 

thrills  with  His  life. 

VIII 

And  he  sings  of  the  time  that  shall  be  when  the  earth  is 

grown  old; 
Of  the  day  when  the  sun  shall  be  withered,  and  shrunken, 

and  cold; 
When  the  stars,  and  the  moon,  and  the  sun,  —  all  their 

glory  o'erpast,  — 
Like  apples  that  shrivel  and  rot,  shall   drop  into  the 

Vast. 


48  THE  CELESTIAL  PASSION 

IX  . 

And  onward  and  out  soars  his  song  on  its  journey  sub 
lime, 

'Mid  systems  that  vanish  or  live  in  the  lilt  of  his  rhyme; 

And  through  making  and  marring  of  races,  and  worlds, 
still  he  sings 

One  theme,  that  o'er  all  and  through  all  his  wild  music 
outrings  — 

x 

This  one  theme :  that  whate'er  be  the  fate  that  has  hurt 

us  or  joyed; 

Whatever  the  face  that  is  turned  to  us  out  of  the  void; 
Be  it  cursing  or  blessing;  or  night,  or  the  light  of  the 

sun; 
Be  it  ill,  be  it  good;  be  it  life,  be  it  death,  it  is  ONE;  — 

XI 

One  thought,  and  one  law,  and  one  awful  and  infinite 

power ; 
In  atom,  and  world;  in  the  bursting  of  fruit  and  of 

flower ; 

The  laughter  of  children,  and  roar  of  the  lion  untamed; 
And  the  stars  in  their  courses  —  one  name  that  can  never 

be  named. 

XII 

But  sudden  a  silence  has  fallen,  the  music  has  fled; 

Tho'  he  leans  with  his  hand  on  his  harp,  now  indeed 
he  is  dead; 

But  the  swan-song  he  sang  shall  for  ever  and  ever  abide 

In  the  heart  of  the  world,  with  the  winds  and  the  murmur 
ing  tide. 


A  CHRISTMAS  HYMN  49 

THE  MASTER-POETS 

HE  the  great  World-Musician  at  whose  stroke 
The  stars  of  morning  into  music  broke; 
He  from  whose  Being  Infinite  are  caught 
All  harmonies  of  light,  and  sound,  and  thought  — 
Once  in  each  age,  to  keep  the  world  in  tune, 
He  strikes  a  note  sublime.   Nor  late,  nor  soon, 
A  godlike  soul,  —  music  and  passion's  birth,  — 
Vibrates  across  the  discord  of  the  earth 
And  sets  the  world  aright. 

O,  these  are  they 

Who  on  men's  hearts  with  mightiest  power  can  play  — 
The  master-poets  of  humanity, 
From  heaven  sent  down  to  lift  men  to  the  sky. 

PART  II 

*  A  CHRISTMAS  HYMN 

i 

TELL  me  what  is  this  innumerable  throng 
Singing  in  the  heavens  a  loud  angelic  song? 

These  are  they  who  come  with  swift  and  shining  feet 
From  round  about  the  throne  of  God  the  Lord  of  Light 
to  greet. 

n 

O,  who  are  these  that  hasten  beneath  the  starry  sky, 
As  if  with  joyful  tidings  that  through  the  world  shall  fly? 
The  faithful  shepherds  these,  who  greatly  were  afeared 
When,  as  they  watched  their  flocks  by  night,  the  heav 
enly  host  appeared. 


50  THE  CELESTIAL  PASSION 

in 

Who  are  these  that  follow  across  the  hills  of  night 
A  star  that  westward  hurries  along  the  fields  of  light? 
Three  wise  men  from  the  east  who  myrrh  and  treasure 

bring 

To  lay  them  at  the  feet  of  him  their  Lord  and  Christ 
and  King. 

IV 

What  babe  new-born  is  this  that  in  a  manger  cries? 
Near  on  her  bed  of  pain  his  happy  mother  lies. 

O,  see  I  the  air  is  shaken  with  white  and  heavenly 

wings  —    . 

This  is  the  Lord  of  all  the  earth,  this  is  the  King  oj 
Kings. 


Tell  me,  how  may  I  join  in  this  holy  feast 

With  all  the  kneeling  world,  and  I  of  all  the  least? 

Fear  not,  O  faithful  heart,  but  bring  what  most  is 

meet : 

Bring  love  alone,  true  love  alone,  and  lay  it  at  his 
feet. 

EASTER 

i 

WHEN  in  the  starry  gloom 
They  sought  the  Lord  Christ's  tomb, 
Two  angels  stood  in  sight, 
All  drest  in  burning  white, 
Who  unto  the  women  said : 
"Why  seek  ye  the  living  among  the  dead?" 


EASTER  51 

II 

His  life,  his  hope,  his  heart, 
With  death  they  had  no  part; 
For  this  those  words  of  scorn 
First  heard  that  holy  morn, 
When  the  waiting  angels  said: 
"Why  seek  ye  the  living  among  the  dead?" 

in 

O,  ye  of  this  latter  day, 
Who  journey  the  selfsame  way  — 
Through  morning's  twilight  gloom 
Back  to  the  shadowy  tomb; 
To  you,  as  to  them,  was  it  said: 
"Why  seek  ye  the  living  among  the  dead?" 

IV 

The  Lord  is  risen  indeed, 
He  is  here  for  your  love,  for  your  need  — 
Not  in  the  grave,  nor  the  sky, 
But  here  where  men  live  and  die; 
And  true  the  word  that  was  said : 
"Why  seek  ye  the  living  among  the  dead?" 


Wherever  are  tears  and  sighs, 
Wherever  are  children's  eyes, 
Where  man  calls  man  his  brother, 
And  loves  as  himself  another, 
Christ  lives!   The  angels  said: 
"Why  seek  ye  the  living  among  the  dead?  " 


52  THE  CELESTIAL  PASSION 


A  MADONNA  OF  FRA  LIPPO  LIPPI 

No  heavenly  maid  we  here  behold, 
Tho'  round  her  brow  a  ring  of  gold; 
This  baby,  solemn-eyed  and  sweet, 
Is  human  all  from  head  to  feet. 

Together  close  her  palms  are  prest 
In  worship  of  that  godly  guest; 
But  glad  her  heart  and  unafraid 
While  on  her  neck  his  hand  is  laid. 

Two  children,  happy,  laughing,  gay, 

Uphold  the  little  child  in  play; 

Not  flying  angels  these,  what  tho' 

Four  wings  from  their  four  shoulders  grow. 

Fra  Lippo,  we  have  learned  from  thee 
A  lesson  of  humanity; 
To  every  mother's  heart  forlorn, 
In  every  house  the  Christ  is  born. 


COST 

BECAUSE  Heaven's  cost  is  Hell,  and  perfect  joy 
Hurts  as  hurts  sorrow;  and  because  we  win 
Some  boon  of  grace  with  the  dread  cost  of  sin, 
Or  suffering  born  of  sin;  because  the  alloy 

Of  blood  but  makes  the  bliss  of  victory  brighter; 
Because  true  worth  hath  surest  proof  herein, 
That  it  should  be  reproached,  and  called  akin 
To  evil  things  —  black  making  white  the  whiter; 

Because  no  cost  seems  great  near  this  —  that  He 


HOLY  LAND  53 

Should  pay  the  ransom  wherewith  we  were  priced; 
And  none  could  name*  a  darker  infamy 
Than  that  a  god  was  spit  upon,  —  enticed 

By  those  he  came  to  save,  to  the  accursed  tree,  — 
For  this  I  know  that  Christ  indeed  is  Christ. 

THE  SONG  OF  A  HEATHEN 

(SOJOURNING  IN  GALILEE,  A.  D.  32) 

i 

IF  Jesus  Christ  is  a  man,  — 

And  only  a  man,  —  I  say 
That  of  all  mankind  I  cleave  to  him, 

And  to  him  will  I  cleave  alway. 


If  Jesus  Christ  is  a  God,  — 

And  the  only  God,  —  I  swear 
I  will  follow  Him  through  heaven  and  hell, 

The  earth,  the  sea,  and  the  air! 

HOLY  LAND 

THIS  is  the  earth  he  walked  on;  not  alone 
That  Asian  country  keeps  the  sacred  stain; 
Ah,  not  alone  the  far  Judaean  plain, 
Mountain  and  river!    Lo,  the  sun  that  shone 

On  him,  shines  now  on  us;  when  day  is  gone 
The  moon  of  Galilee  comes  forth  again 
And  lights  our  path  as  his;  an  endless  chain 
Of  years  and  sorrows  makes  the  round  world  one. 

The  air  we  breathe,  he  breathed  —  the  very  air 
That  took  the  mold  and  music  of  his  high 
And  godlike  speech.   Since  then  shall  mortal  dare 


54  THE  CELESTIAL  PASSION 

With  base  thought  front  the  ever-sacred  sky  — 
Soil  with  foul  deed  the  ground  whereon  he  laid 
In  holy  death  his  pale,  immortal  head! 


ON  A  PORTRAIT  OF  SERVETUS 

THOU  grim  and  haggard  wanderer,  who  dost  look 
With  haunting  eyes  forth  from  the  narrow  page! 
I  know  what  fires  consumed  with  inward  rage 
Thy  broken  frame,  what  tempests  chilled  and  shook. 

Ah,  could  not  thy  remorseless  foeman  brook 

Time's  sure  devourment,  but  must  needs  assuage 

His  anger  in  thy  blood,  and  blot  the  age 

With  that  dark  crime  which  virtue's  semblance  took! 

Servetus!  that  which  slew  thee  lives  to-day, 
Tho'  in  new  forms  it  taints  our  modern  air; 
Still  in  heaven's  name  the  deeds  of  hell  are  done; 

Still  on  the  high-road,  'neath  the  noonday  sun, 
The  fires  of  hate  are  lit  for  them  who  dare 
Follow  their  Lord  along  the  untrodden  way. 

"DESPISE   NOT  THOU" 

DESPISE  not  thou  thy  father's  ancient  creed; 
Of  his  pure  life  it  was  the  golden  thread 
Whereon  bright  days  were  gathered,  bead  by  bead, 
Till  death  laid  low  that  dear  and  reverend  head. 

From  olden  faith  how  many  a  glorious  deed 
Hath  lit  the  world;  its  blood-stained  banner  led 
The  martyrs  heavenward;  yea,  it  was  the  seed 
Of  knowledge,  whence  our  modern  freedom  spread. 

Not  always  has  man's  credo  proved  a  snare  — 
But  a  deliverance,  a  sign,  a  flame 
To  purify  the  dense  and  pestilent  air, 


RECOGNITION  55 

Writing  on  pitiless  heavens  one  pitying  name; 
And  'neath  the  shadow  of  the  dread  eclipse 
It  shines  on  dying  eyes  and  pallid  lips. 


"TO  REST  FROM  WEARY  WORK" 

To  REST  from  weary  work  one  day  of  seven; 
One  day  to  turn  our  backs  upon  the  world, 
Its  soil  wash  from  us,  and  strive  on  to  Heaven  — 
Whereto  we  daily  climb,  but  quick  are  hurled 

Down  to  the  pit  of  human  pride  and  sin. 
Help  me,  ye  powers  celestial!  to  come  nigh; 
Ah,  let  me  catch  one  little  glimpse  within 
The  heavenly  city,  lest  my  spirit  die. 

These  be  my  guides,  my  messengers,  my  friends: 
Books  of  wise  poets;  the  musician's  art; 
The  ocean  whose  deep  music  never  ends; 

The  silence  of  the  forest's  shadowy  heart; 
Not  less  the  brooding  organ's  solemn  blare, 
And  kneeling  multitudes'  low-murmuring  prayer. 

PART  III 
RECOGNITION 


IN  darkness  of  the  visionary  night 

This  I  beheld:  Wide  space  and  therein  God, 

God  who  in  dual  nature  doth  abide  — 

Love,  and  the  Loved  One,  Power  and  Beauty's  self; 

Him  even  the  spirit's  eye  might  not  transfix 

But  sidelong  gazed,  fainting  before  the  light. 

And  forth  from  God  did  come,  —  with  dreadful  thrill, 

And  starry  music  like  to  million  wires 


56  THE  CELESTIAL  PASSION 

That  shiver  with  the  breathings  of  the  dawn,  — 

Creation,  boundless,  bodiless,  unformed, 

And  white  with  trembling  fire  and  light  intense, 

And  outward  pulsings  like  the  boreal  flame. 

One  mighty  cloud  it  seemed,  nor  star,  nor  earth, 

Or  like  a  nameless  growth  of  the  under-seas; 

Creation  dumb,  unconscious,  yet  alive 

With  some  deep,  inward  passion  unexprest, 

And  swift,  concentric,  never-ceasing  urge  — 

Resolving  gradual  to  one  disk  of  fire. 

And  as  I  looked,  behold!  the  flying  rim 

Grew  separate  from  the  center;  this  again 

Divided,  and  the  whole  still  swift  revolved, 

Ring  within  ring,  and  fiery  wheel  in  wheel; 

Till,  sudden  or  slow  as  chanced,  the  outmost  edge 

Whirled  into  fragments,  each  a  separate  sun, 

With  lesser  globes  attendant  on  its  flight. 

These  while  I  gazed  turned  dark  with  smoldering  fire 

And,  slow  contracting,  grew  to  solid  orbs. 

Then  knew  I  that  this  planetary  world, 

Cradled  in  light,  and  curtained  with  the  dawn 

And  starry  eve,  was  born;  tho'  in  itself 

Complete  and  perfect  all,  yet  but  a  part 

And  atom  of  the  living  universe. 

ii 

Unconscious  still  the  child  of  the  conscious  God  — 

Creation,  born  of  Beauty  and  of  Love, 

Beauty  the  womb  and  mother  of  all  worlds. 

But  soon  with  breathless  speed  the  new-made  earth 

Swept  near  me  where  I  watched  the  birth  of  things, 

Its  greatening  bulk  eclipsing,  star  by  star, 

Half  the  bright  heavens.   Then  I  beheld  crawl  forth 

Upon  the  earth's  cool  crust  most  wondrous  forms 


HYMN  57 

Wherein  were  hid,  in  transmutation  strange, 
Sparks  of  the  ancient,  never-ending  fire; 
Shapes  moved  not  solely  by  exterior  law 
But  having  will  and  motion  of  their  own  — • 
First  sluggish  and  minute,  then  by  degrees 
Monstrous,  enorm.   Then  other  forms  more  fine 
Streamed  ceaseless  on  my  sight,  until  at  last, 
Rising  and  turning  its  slow  gaze  about 
Across  the  abysmal  void,  the  mighty  child 
Of  the  supreme,  divine  Omnipotence  — 
Creation,  born  of  God,  by  Him  begot, 
Conscious  in  MAN,  no  longer  blind  and  dumb, 
Beheld  and  knew  its  father  and  its  God. 

HYMN 

SUNG  AT  THE  PRESENTATION  OF  THE  OBELISK  TO  THE 
CITY  OF  NEW  YORK,  FEBRUARY  22,  l88l 


GREAT  God,  to  whom  since  time  began 

The  world  has  prayed  and  striven; 
Maker  of  stars,  and  earth,  and  man, 
To  Thee  our  praise  is  given. 
Here,  by  this  ancient  Sign 
Of  Thine  own  Light  divine, 
We  lift  to  Thee  our  eyes, 
Thou  Dweller  of  the  Skies; 
Hear  us,  O  God  in  Heaven ! 

n 

Older  than  Nilus'  mighty  flood 

Into  the  Mid-Sea  pouring, 
Or  than  the  sea,  Thou  God  hast  stood  — 

Thou  God  of  our  adoring! 


58  THE  CELESTIAL   PASSION 

Waters  and  stormy  blast 
Haste  when  Thou  bid'st  them  haste; 
Silent,  and  hid,  and  still, 
Thou  sendest  good  and  ill; 
Thy  ways  are  past  exploring. 

m 

In  myriad  forms,  by  myriad  names, 
Men  seek  to  bind  and  mold  Thee; 
But  Thou  dost  melt,  like  wax  in  flames, 
The  cords  that  would  enfold  Thee. 
Who  madest  life  and  light, 
Bring'st  morning  after  night, 
Who  all  things  didst  create  — 
No  majesty,  nor  state, 
Nor  word,  nor  world  can  hold  Thee ! 

IV 

Great  God,  to  whom  since  time  began 

The  world  has  prayed  and  striven; 
Maker  of  stars,  and  earth,  and  man, 
To  Thee  our  praise  is  given. 
Of  suns  Thou  art  the  Sun, 
Eternal,  holy  One; 
Who  us  can  help  save  Thou? 
To  Thee  alone  we  bow! 
Hear  us,  O  God  in  heaven ! 

A  THOUGHT 

ONCE,  looking  from  a  window  on  a  land 
That  lay  in  silence  underneath  the  sun,  — 
A   land   of   broad,    green  meadows,  through   which 
poured 


THE   VOICE   OF   THE  PINE  59 

Two  rivers,  slowly  widening  to  the  sea,  — 
Thus  as  I  looked,  I  know  not  how  nor  whence, 
Was  born  into  my  unexpectant  soul 
That  thought,  late  learned  by  anxious-witted  man, 
The  infinite  patience  of  the  Eternal  Mind. 

THE  VOICE   OF  THE  PINE 

JT  is  night  upon  the  lake.   Our  bed  of  boughs 
Is  built  where,  high  above,  the  pine-tree  soughs. 
'T  is  still  —  and  yet  what  woody  noises  loom 
Against  the  background  of  the  silent  gloom ! 
One  well  might  hear  the  opening  of  a  flower 
If  day  were  husht  as  this.     A  mimic  shower 
Just  shaken  from  a  branch,  how  large  it  sounded, 
As  'gainst  our  canvas  roof  its  three  drops  bounded ! 
Across  the  rumpling  waves  the  hoot-owl's  bark 
Tolls  forth  the  midnight  hour  upon  the  dark. 
What  mellow  booming  from  the  hills  doth  come  ?  — 
The  mountain  quarry  strikes  its  mighty  drum. 

Long  had  we  lain  beside  our  pine-wood  fire, 
From  things  of  sport  our  talk  had  risen  higher. 
How  frank  and  intimate  the  words  of  men 
When  tented  lonely  in  some  forest  glen ! 
No  dallying  now  with  masks,  from  whence  emerges 
Scarce  one  true  feature  forth.  The  night-wind  urges 
To  straight  and  simple  speech.     So  was  our  thought 
Audible  ;  secrets  to  the  light  were  brought. 
The  hid  and  spiritual  hopes,  the  wild, 
Unreasoned  longings  that,  from  child  to  child, 
Mortals  still  cherish  (tho'  with  modern  shame)  — 
To  these,  and  things  like  these,  we  gave  a  name; 
And  as  we  talked,  the  intense  and  resinous  fire 


60  THE  CELESTIAL  PASSION 

Lit  up  the  towering  boles,  till  nigh  and  nigher 

They  gathered  round,  a  ghostly  company, 

Like  beasts  who  seek  to  know  what  men  may  be. 

Then  to  our  hemlock  beds,  but  not  to  sleep  — 
For  listening  to  the  stealthy  steps  that  creep 
About  the  tent,  or  falling  branch,  but  most 
A  noise  was  like  the  rustling  of  a  host, 
Or  like  the  sea  that  breaks  upon  the  shore  — 
It  was  the  pine-tree's  murmur.  More  and  more 
It  took  a  human  sound.   These  words  I  felt 
Into  the  skyey  darkness  float  and  melt :  — 

"Heardst  thou  these  wanderers  reasoning  of  a  time 
When  men  more  near  the  Eternal  One  shall  climb? 
How  like  the  new-born  child,  who  cannot  tell 
A  mother's  arm  that  wraps  it  warm  and  well! 
Leaves  of  His  rose ;  drops  in  His  sea  that  flow,  — 
Are  they,  alas,  so  blind  they  may  not  know 
Here,  in  this  breathing  world  of  joy  and  fear, 
We  can  no  nearer  get  to  God  than  here." 


MORNING,  NOON,  AND  NIGHT 

THE  mountain  that  the  morn  doth  kiss 
Glad  greets  its  shining  neighbor; 

Lord!  heed  the  homage  of  our  bliss, 
The  incense  of  our  labor. 

Sharp  smites  the  sun  like  burning  rain, 
And  field  and  flower  languish; 

Hear,  Lord !  the  pleading  of  our  pain, 
The  passion  of  our  anguish. 


THE   SOUL  6 1 

Now  the  long  shadows  eastward  creep, 

The  golden  sun  is  setting; 
Take,  Lord !  the  worship  of  our  sleep, 

The  praise  of  our  forgetting. 

"DAY  UNTO   DAY  UTTERETH  SPEECH" 

THE  speech  that  day  doth  utter,  and  the  night, 
Full  oft  to  mortal  ears  it  hath  no  sound; 
Dull  are  our  eyes  to  read  upon  the  ground 
What's  written  there;  and  stars  are  hid  by  light. 

So  when  the  dark  doth  fall,  awhile  our  sight 
Kens  the  unwonted  orbs  that  circle  round, 
Then  quick  in  sleep  our  human  sense  is  bound  — 
Speechless  for  us  the  starry  heavens  and  bright. 

But  when  the  day  doth  close  there  is  one  word 
That's  writ  amid  the  sunset's  golden  embers; 
And  one  at  morn ;  by  them  our  hearts  are  stirred : 

Splendor  of  Dawn,  and  Evening  that  remembers; 
These  are  the  rhymes  of  God;  thus,  line  on  line, 
Our  souls  are  moved  to  thoughts  that  are  divine. 


PART  IV 

THE  SOUL 

THREE  messengers  to  me  from  heaven  came 
And  said :  "  There  is  a  deathless  human  soul ; 
It  is  not  lost,  as  is  the  fiery  flame 
That  dies  into  the  undistinguished  whole. 

Ah,  no;  it  separate  is,  distinct  as  God  — 
Nor  any  more  than  He  can  it  be  killed; 
Then  fearless  give  thy  body  to  the  clod, 
For  naught  can  quench  the  light  that  once  it  filled! " 


62  THE  CELESTIAL  PASSION 

Three  messengers  —  the  first  was  human  LOVE  ; 

The  second  voice  came  crying  in  the  night 

With  strange  and  awful  music  from  above; 
None  who  have  heard  that  voice  forget  it  quite; 

BIRTH  is  it  named;  the  third,  O,  turn  not  pale! 

'T  was  DEATH  to  the  undying  soul  cried,  Hail ! 


"WHEN  LOVE  DAWNED" 

WHEN  love  dawned  on  that  world  which  is  my  mind, 
Then  did  the  outer  world  wherein  I  went 
Suffer  a  sudden,  strange  transfigurement ; 
It  wras  as  if  new  sight  were  given  the  blind. 

Then  where  the  shore  to  the  wide  sea  inclined 
I  watched  with  new  eyes  the  new  sun's  ascent; 
My  heart  was  stirred  within  me  as  I  leant 
And  listened  to  a  voice  in  every  wind. 

O  purple  sea !  O  joy  beyond  control ! 

O  land  of  love  and  youth !   O  happy  throng ! 
Were  ye  then  real,  or  did  ye  only  seem? 

Dear  is  that  morning  twilight  of  the  soul,  — 
The  mystery,  the  waking  voice  of  song,  — 
For  now  I  know  it  was  not  all  a  dream. 


LOVE  AND   DEATH 
i 

Now  who  can  take  from  us  what  we  have  known  - 
We  that  have  looked  into  each  other's  eyes? 
Tho'  sudden  night  should  blacken  all  the  skies, 
The  day  is  ours,  and  what  the  day  has  shown. 

What  we  have  seen  and  been,  hath  not  this  grown 
Part  of  our  very  selves?  We,  made  love-wise, 


FATHER   AND   CHILD  63 

What  power  shall  slay  our  living  memories, 
And  who  shall  take  from  us  what  is  our  own  ? 

So,  when  a  shade  of  the  last  parting  fell, 
This  thought  gave  peace,  as  he  deep  comfort  hath 
Who,  thirsting,  drinks  cool  waters  from  a  well. 

But  soon  I  felt  more  near  that  fatal  breath; 
More  near  he  drew,  till  I  his  face  could  tell, 
Till  then  unseen,  unknown  —  I  looked  on  Death. 

ii 
We  know  not  where  they  tarry  who  have  died; 

The  gate  wherein  they  entered  is  made  fast; 

No  living  mortal  hath  seen  one  who  past 

Hither,  from  out  that  darkness  deep  and  wide. 
We  lean  on  Faith;  and  some  less  wise  have  cried: 

"Behold  the  butterfly,  the  seed  that's  cast!" 

Vain  hopes  that  fall  like  flowers  before  the  blast! 

What  man  can  look  on  Death  unterrified?  — 
Who  love  can  never  die!  They  are  a  part 

Of  all  that  lives  beneath  the  summer  sky; 

With  the  world's  living  soul  their  souls  are  one; 
Nor  shall  they  in  vast  nature  be  undone 

And  lost  in  the  general  life.   Each  separate  heart 

Shall  live,  and  find  its  own,  and  never  die. 

FATHER  AND   CHILD 

BENEATH  the  deep  and  solemn  midnight  sky, 
At  this  last  verge  and  boundary  of  time 
I  stand,  and  listen  to  the  starry  chime 
That  sounds  to  the  inward  ear,  and  will  not  die. 

Now  do  the  thoughts  that  daily  hidden  lie 
Arise,  and  live  in  a  celestial  clime,  — 
Unutterable  thoughts,  most  high,  sublime,  — 
Crossed  by  one  dread  that  frights  mortality. 


64  THE  CELESTIAL  PASSION 

Thus,  as  I  muse,  I  hear  my  little  child 
Sob  in  its  sleep  within  the  cottage  near  — 
My  own  dear  child !   Gone  is  that  mortal  doubt ! 

The  Power  that  drew  our  lives  forth  from  the  wild 
Our  Father  is;  we  shall  to  Him  be  dear, 
Nor  from  His  universe  be  blotted  out! 

"BEYOND    THE   BRANCHES    OF   THE    PINE" 

BEYOND  the  branches  of  the  pine 
The  golden  sun  no  more  doth  shine, 

But  still  the  solemn  afterglow 
Floods  the  deep  heavens  with  light  divine. 

The  night-wind  stirs  the  corn-field  near, 
The  gray  moon  turns  to  silver  clear, 

And  one  by  one  the  glimmering  stars 
In  the  blue  dome  of  heaven  appear. 

Now  do  the  mighty  hosts  of  light 
Across  the  darkness  take  their  flight; 

They  rise  above  the  eastern  hill 
And  silent  journey  through  the  night. 

And  there  beneath  the  starry  zone, 
In  the  deep,  narrow  grave,  alone, 

Rests  all  that  mortal  was  of  her, 
The  purest  spirit  I  have  known. 

AN  AUTUMN  MEDITATION 

As  the  long  day  of  cloud  and  storm  and  sun 

Declines  into  the  dark  and  silent  night, 

So  past  the  old  man's  life  from  human  gaze; 


AN   AUTUMN   MEDITATION  65 

But  not  till  sunset,  full  of  lovely  light 
And  color  that  the  day  might  not  reveal, 
Bathed  in  soft  gloom  the  landscape. 

Thus,  kind  Heaven, 

Let  me,  too,  die  when  Autumn  holds  the  year,  — 
Serene,  with  tender  hues  and  bracing  airs,  — 
And  near  me  those  I  love;  with  no  black  thoughts, 
Nor  dread  of  what  may  come !   Yea,  when  I  die 
Let  me  not  miss  from  nature  the  cool  rush 
Of  northern  winds;  let  Autumn  sunset  skies 
Be  golden;  let  the  cold,  clear  blue  of  night 
Whiten  with  stars  as  now!  then  shall  I  fade 
From  life  to  life  —  pass  on  the  year's  full  tide 
Into  the  swell  and  vast  of  the  outer  sea 
Beyond  this  narrow  world. 

For  Autumn  days 
To  me  not  melancholy  are,  but  full 
Of  joy  and  hope,  mysterious  and  high; 
And  with  strange  promise  rife.   Then  it  meseems 
Not  failing  is  the  year,  but  gathering  fire 
Even  as  the  cold  increases. 

Grows  a  weed 

More  richly  here  beside  our  mellow  seas 
That  is  the  Autumn's  harbinger  and  pride. 
When  fades  the  cardinal-flower,  whose  heart-red  bloom 
Glows  like  a  living  coal  upon  the  green 
Of  the  midsummer  meadows,  then  how  bright, 
How  deepening  bright,  like  mounting  flame  doth  burn 
The  goldenrod  upon  a  thousand  hills! 
This  is  the  Autumn's  flower,  and  to  my  soul 
A  token  fresh  of  beauty  and  of  life, 
And  life's  supreme  delight. 


66  THE  CELESTIAL  PASSION 

When  I  am  gone, 

Something  of  me  I  would  might  subtly  pass 
Within  these  flowers  twain  of  all  the  year; 
So  might  my  spirit  send  a  sudden  stir 
Into  the  hearts  of  those  who  love  these  hills, 
These  woods,  these  waves,  and  meadows  by  the  sea. 

"CALL  ME  NOT  DEAD" 

CALL  me  not  dead  when  I,  indeed,  have  gone 
Into  the  company  of  the  everliving 
High  and  most  glorious  poets!   Let  thanksgiving 
Rather  be  made.   Say:  "He  at  last  hath  won 

Rest  and  release,  converse  supreme  and  wise, 
Music  and  song  and  light  of  immortal  faces; 
To-day,  perhaps,  wandering  in  starry  places, 
He  hath  met  Keats,  and  known  him  by  his  eyes. 

To-morrow  (who  can  say?)  Shakespeare  may  pass, 
And  our  lost  friend  just  catch  one  syllable 
Of  that  three-centuried  wit  that  kept  so  well; 

Or  Milton;  or  Dante,  looking  on  the  grass 
Thinking  of  Beatrice,  and  listening  still 
To  chanted  hymns  that  sound  from  the  heavenly  hill." 

"EACH  MOMENT  HOLY  IS" 

EACH  moment  holy  is,  for  out  from  God 
Each  moment  flashes  forth  a  human  soul. 
Holy  each  moment  is,  for  back  to  Him 
Some  wandering  soul  each  moment  home  returns. 

"WHEN  TO   SLEEP  I  MUST" 

WHEN  to  sleep  I  must 
Where  my  fathers  sleep; 


THE    EVENING   STAR  67 

When  fulfilled  the  trust, 
And  the  mourners  weep; 
When,  tho'  free  from  rust, 
Sword  hath  lost  its  worth  — 
Let  me  bring  to  earth 
No  dishonored  dust. 


TO   A  DEPARTED   FRIEND 

DEAR  friend,  who  lovedst  well  this  pleasant  life! 

One  year  ago  it  is  this  very  day 

Since  thou  didst  take  thy  uncompanioned  way 

Into  the  silent  land,  from  out  the  strife 
And  joyful  tumult  of  the  world.   The  knife 

Wherewith  that  sorrow  cut  us  still  doth  stay, 

And  we,  to  whom  thou  daily  didst  betray 

Thy  gentle  soul,  with  faith  and  worship  rife, 
Love  thee  not  less  but  more  —  as  time  doth  go 

And  we  too  hasten  toward  that  land  unknown 

Where  those  most  dear  are  gathering  one  by  one. 
The  power  divine  that  here  did  touch  thy  heart  — 

Hath  this  withdrawn  from  thee,  where  now  thou  art  ? 

Would  thou  indeed  couldst  tell  what  thou  dost  know ! 

"THE  EVENING  STAR" 

THE  evening  star  trembles  and  hides  from  him 
Who  fain  would  hold  it  with  imperious  stare; 
Yet,  to  the  averted  eye,  lo!  unaware 
It  shines  serene,  no  longer  shy  and  dim. 

O,  slow  and  sweet,  its  chalice  to  the  brim 

Fills  the  leaf-shadowed  grape  with  rich  and  rare 
Cool  sunshine,  caught  from  the  white  circling  air! 
Home  from  his  journey  to  the  round  world's  rim,  — 


68  THE  CELESTIAL  PASSION 

Through  lonely  lands,  through  cloudy  seas  and  vext,  — 
At  last  the  Holy  Grail  met  Launfal's  sight. 
So  when  my  friend  lost  him  who  was  her  next 

Of  soul,  —  life  of  her  life,  —  all  day  the  fight 
Raged  with  a  dumb  and  pitiless  God.   Perplext 
She  slept.  Heaven  sent  its  comfort  in  the  night. 

LIFE 


GREAT  Universe  —  what  dost  thou  with  thy  dead! 

Now  thinking  on  the  myriads  that  have  gone 

Into  a  seeming  blank  oblivion, 

With  here  and  there  a  most  resplendent  head,  — 
Eyes  of  such  trancing  sweetness,  or  so  dread, 

That  made  the  soul  to  quake  who  looked  thereon,  — 

All  utterly  wiped  out,  dismissed,  and  done; 

Lost,  speechless,  viewless,  and  forever  fled! 
Myriad  on  myriad,  past  the  power  to  count ;  — 

Where  are  they,  thou  dumb  Nature?  Do  they  shine, 

Released  from  separate  life,  in  summer  airs, 
On  moony  seas,  in  dawns?  —  or  up  the  stairs 

Of  spiritual  being  slowly  mount 

And  by  degrees  grow  more  and  more  divine? 

ii 

Ah,  thou  wilt  never  answer  to  our  call, 

Thou  Voiceless  One  —  naught  in  thee  can  be  stirred, 
What  tho'  the  soul,  like  to  a  frightened  bird, 
Dash  itself  wildly  'gainst  thy  mountain-wall. 

From  Nature  comes  no  answer,  tho'  we  fall 
In  utmost  anguish  praying  to  be  heard, 
Or  peer  below,  or  our  brave  spirits  gird 
For  steep  and  starry  flight;  't  is  silent  all. 


UNDYING    LIGHT  69 

In  vain  to  question  —  save  the  heart  of  man, 
The  throbbing  human  heart,  that  still  doth  keep 
Its  truth,  love,  hope,  its  high  and  quenchless  faith. 

By  day,  by  night,  when  all  else  faints  in  sleep, 

"Naught  is  but  Life,"  it  cries;  "there  is  no  death; 
Life,  Life  doth  only  live,  since  Life  began." 

THE  FREED   SPIRIT 

BROTHER  of  sorrow  and  mortality! 

Not  always  shall  we  chide  the  failing  flesh 

That  lets  the  netted  soul  to  silence  fly, 

Like  a  wild  bird  that  breaks  the  treacherous  mesh; 

Not  always  shall  men  curse  in  stormy  sky 
The  laughter  and  the  fury  of  a  Power 
That  sees  its  chance-born  children  sink  and  die  — 
Hurling  or  death  or  life  for  dole  or  dower. 

Who  deep  his  spirit  searches  can  deny 
O  nevermore,  that  life  doth  leave  a  trace 
Of  something  not  all  heavenly;  tho'  we  try 

Daily  to  turn  toward  Heaven  a  stedfast  face. 

Even  grief  doth  soil  us  with  its  poisonous  breath  — 
Then  free  our  spirits  utterly,  pure  Death ! 

UNDYING  LIGHT 


WHEN  in  the  golden  western  summer  skies 
A  flaming  glory  starts,  and  slowly  fades 
Through  crimson  tone  on  tone  to  deeper  shades, 
There  falls  a  silence,  while  the  daylight  dies 

Lingering  —  but  not  with  human  agonies 
That  tear  the  soul,  or  terror  that  degrades; 
A  holy  peace  the  failing  world  pervades, 
Nor  any  fear  of  that  which  onward  lies. 


JO  THE  CELESTIAL  PASSION 

For  well,  ah  well,  the  darkened  vale  recalls 
A  thousand  times  ten  thousand  vanished  suns; 
Ten  thousand  sunsets  from  whose  blackened  walls 

Reflamed  the  white  and  living  day  that  runs, 
In  light  which  brings  all  beauty  to  the  birth, 
Deathless  forever  round  the  ancient  earth. 


O  Thou  the  Lord  and  Maker  of  life  and  light ! 
Full  heavy  are  the  burdens  that  do  weigh 
Our  spirits  earthward,  as  through  twilight  gray 
We  journey  to  the  end  and  rest  of  night; 

Tho'  well  we  know  to  the  deep  inward  sight 
Darkness  is  but  Thy  shadow,  and  the  day 
Where  Thou  art  never  dies,  but  sends  its  ray 
Through  the  wide  universe  with  restless  might. 

O  Lord  of  Light,  steep  Thou  our  souls  in  Thee ! 
That  when  the  daylight  trembles  into  shade, 
And  falls  the  silence  of  mortality, 

And  all  is  done,  we  shall  not  be  afraid, 

But  pass  from  light  to  light;  from  earth >s  dull  gleam 
Into  the  very  heart  and  heaven  of  our  dream. 


LYRICS 


LYRICS 

PART  I 
ODE 


I  AM  the  spirit  of  the  morning  sea; 

I  am  the  awakening  and  the  glad  surprise; 

I  fill  the  skies 

With  laughter  and  with  light. 

Not  tears,  but  jollity 

At  birth  of  day  brim  the  strong  man-child's  eyes. 

Behold  the  white 

Wide  threefold  beams  that  from  the  hidden  sun 

Rise  swift  and  far  — 

One  where  Orion  keeps 

His  armed  watch,  and  one 

That  to  the  midmost  starry  heaven  upleaps; 

The  third  blots  out  the  firm-fixt  Northern  Star. 

I  am  the  wind  that  shakes  the  glittering  wave, 
Hurries  the  snowy  spume  along  the  shore 
And  dies  at  last  in  some  far,  murmuring  cave. 
My  voice  thou  hearest  in  the  breaker's  roar  — 
That  sound  which  never  failed  since  time  began, 
And  first  around  the  world  the  shining  tumult  ran. 


I  light  the  sea  and  wake  the  sleeping  land. 
My  footsteps  on  the  hills  make  music,  and  my  hand 
Plays  like  a  harper's  on  the  wind-swept  pines. 


74  LYRICS 

With  the  wind  and  the  day 
I  follow  round  the  world  —  away !   away ! 
Wide  over  lake  and  plain  my  sunlight  shines 
And  every  wave  and  every  blade  of  grass 
Doth  know  me  as  I  pass; 

And  me  the  western  sloping  mountains  know,  and  me 
The  far-off,  golden  sea. 

0  sea,  whereon  the  passing  sun  doth  lie ! 
O  man,  who  watchest  by  that  golden  sea! 
Grieve  not,  O,  grieve  not  thou,  but  lift  thine  eye 
And  see  me  glorious  in  the  sunset  sky! 

in 

1  love  not  the  night 

Save  when  the  stars  are  bright, 
Or  when  the  moon 

Fills  the  white  air  with  silence  like  a  tune. 
Yea,  even  the  night  is  mine 
When  the  Northern  Lights  outshine, 
And  all  the  wild  heavens  throb  in  ecstasy  divine ;  — 
Yea,  mine  deep  midnight,  tho'  the  black  sky  lowers, 
When  the  sea  burns  white  and  breaks  on  the  shore  in 
starry  showers. 

iv  • 

I  am  the  laughter  of  the  new-born  child 
On  whose  soft-breathing  sleep  an  angel  smiled. 
And  I  all  sweet  first  things  that  are: 
First  songs  of  birds,  not  perfect  as  at  last,  — 
Broken  and  incomplete, — 
But  sweet,  O,  sweet! 
And  I  the  first  faint  glimmer  of  a  star 
To  the  wreckt  ship  that  tells  the  storm  is  past; 
The  first  keen  smells  and  stirrings  of  the  Spring; 


A   SONG   OF   EARLY   SUMMER  75 

First  snowflakes,  and  first  May-flowers  after  snow; 

The  silver  glow 

Of  the  new  moon's  ethereal  ring; 

The  song  the  morning  stars  together  made, 

And  the  first  kiss  of  lovers  under  the  first  June  shade. 


My  sword  is  quick,  my  arm  is  strong  to  smite 
In  the  dread  joy  and  fury  of  the  fight. 
I  am  with  those  who  win,  not  those  who  fly; 
With  those  who  live  I  am,  not  those  who  die. 
Who  die?  Nay,  nay,  that  word 
Where  I  am  is  unheard; 

For  I  am  the  spirit  of  youth  that  cannot  change, 
Nor  cease,  nor  suffer  woe; 
And  I  am  the  spirit  of  beauty  that  doth  range 
Through  natural  forms  and  motions,  and  each  show 
Of  outward  loveliness.   With  me  have  birth 
All  gentleness  and  joy  in  all  the  earth. 
Raphael  knew  me,  and  showed  the  world  my  face; 
Me  Homer  knew,  and  all  the  singing  race  — 
For  I  am  the  spirit  of  light,  and  life,  and  mirth. 

A  SONG  OF  EARLY  SUMMER 

NOT  yet  the  orchard  lifted 
Its  cloudy  bloom  to  the  sky, 

Nor  through  the  dim  twilight  drifted 
The  whippoorwilPs  low  cry; 

The  gray  rock  had  not  made 
Of  the  vine  its  glistening  kirtle; 

Nor  shook  in  the  locust  shade 
The  purple  bells  of  the  "myrtle." 


76  LYRICS 

Not  yet  up  the  chimney-hollow 
Was  heard  in  the  darkling  night 

The  boom  and  whir  of  the  swallow, 
And  the  twitter  that  follows  the  flight; 

Before  the  foamy  whitening 

Of  the  water  below  the  mill; 
Ere  yet  the  summer  lightning 

Shone  red  at  the  edge  of  the  hill; 

In  the  time  of  sun  and  showers, 
Of  skies  half  black,  half  clear; 

'Twixt  melting  snows  and  flowers; 
At  the  poise  of  the  flying  year; 

When  woods  flusht  pink  and  yellow 

In  dreams  of  leafy  June; 
And  days  were  keen  or  mellow 

Like  tones  in  a  changing  tune; 

Before  the  birds  had  broken 

Forth  in  their  song  divine, 
O,  then  the  word  was  spoken 

That  made  my  darling  mine. 

A  MIDSUMMER  SONG 

O,  father's  gone  to  market-town,  he  was  up  before  the 

day, 

And  Jamie 's  after  robins,  and  the  man  is  making  hay, 
And  whistling  down  the  hollow  goes  the  boy  that  minds 

the  mill, 

While  mother  from  the  kitchen-door  is  calling  with  a  will : 
"  Polly !  —  Polly !  —  The  cows  are  in  the  corn ! 
O,  where's  Polly?" 


ON   THE   WILD   ROSE   TREE  77 

From  all  the  misty  morning  air  there  comes  a  summer 

sound  — 

A  murmur  as  of  waters  from  skies  and  trees  and  ground. 
The  birds  they  sing  upon  the  wing,  the  pigeons  bill  and 

coo, 

And  over  hill  and  hollow  rings  again  the  loud  halloo: 
"  Polly !  —  Polly !  —  The  cows  are  in  the  corn ! 
O,  where's  Polly?" 

Above  the  trees  the  honey-bees  swarm  by  with  buzz  and 

boom, 

And  in  the  field  and  garden  a  thousand  blossoms  bloom. 
Within  the  farmer's  meadow  a  brown-eyed  daisy  blows, 
And  down  at  the  edge  of  the  hollow  a  red  and  thorny 
rose. 

But  Polly !  —  Polly !  —  The  cows  are  in  the  corn! 
O,  where's  Polly? 

How  strange  at  such  a  time  of  day  the  mill  should  stop 

its  clatter' 
The  farmer's  wife  is  listening  now  and  wonders  what's 

the  matter. 

O,  wild  the  birds  are  singing  in  the  wood  and  on  the  hill, 
While  whistling  up  the  hollow  goes  the  boy  that  minds 
the  mill. 

But  Polly !  —  Polly !  —  The  cows  are  in  the  corn  I 
O,  where's  Polly? 

"ON  THE  WILD   ROSE  TREE" 

ON  the  wild  rose  tree 
Many  buds  there  be, 
Yet  each  sunny  hour 
Hath  but  one  perfect  flower. 


78  LYRICS 

Thou  who  wouldst  be  wise 
Open  wide  thine  eyes; 
In  each  sunny  hour 
Pluck  the  one  perfect  flower ! 

"BEYOND   ALL  BEAUTY  IS  THE  UNKNOWN 
GRACE" 

BEYOND  all  beauty  is  the  unknown  grace; 

Above  all  bliss  a  higher;  and  above 

The  lovingest  is  a  more  loving  love 

That  shows  not  the  still  anguish  of  its  face. 
Than  death  there  is  a  deathlier.   Brief  space 

Behind  despair  the  blacker  shadows  rove; 

Beneath  all  life  a  deeper  life  doth  move : 

So,  friends  of  mine,  when  empty  is  my  place,  — 
For  me  no  more  grass  grows,  dead  leaves  are  stirred,— 

And  still  the  songs  that  once  you  loved  to  hear; 

True  friends  whom  well  I  thank  for  every  word 
Of  heart-help, —  praise  or  blame, —  as  you  draw  near 

I  pray  that  'mid  your  tears  this  may  be  heard: 

"For  what  he  never  did  he  is  most  dear." 

THE  VIOLET 

A  VIOLET  lay  in  the  grass, 
A  tear  in  its  golden  eye; 
And  it  said:  "Alas  and  alas! 
The  night  is  over  and  gone, 
Another  day  is  anigh, 
And  I  am  alone,  alone ! 
There  is  none  to  care  if  I  die, 
There  is  none  to  be  glad  that  I  live; 
The  lovers  they  pass  me  by 


THE   VIOLET  79 

And  never  a  glance  they  give. 

And  I  could  love  so  well,  so  well ! 

If  one  would  but  tarry  and  tell 

A  tale  that  was  told  to  me  only :  — 

My  lover  might  go  his  ways, 

But  through  all  the  nights  and  the  days 

I  should  never  again  be  lonely! " 

Then  sudden  there  fell  a  look 
Into  that  violet's  heart. 
It  lifted  its  face  with  a  start; 
It  arose;  it  trembled  and  shook. 
"At  last,  O,  at  last!"  it  cried; 
Down  drooped  its  head,  and  it  died. 

Is  God  in  Heaven!  Is  the  light 

Of  the  moons,  and  the  stars,  and  the  suns, 

His  —  or  the  Evil  One's, 

Is  He  cruel,  or  mad,  or  right! 

The  lily  that  grew  by  the  wall, 

Its  heart  was  heavy  with  bliss. 

In  the  night  it  heard  a  call; 

It  listened,  it  felt  a  kiss; 

Then  a  loving  Wind  did  fall 

On  its  breast,  and  shiver  with  gladness: 

The  morning  brought  love's  madness 

To  light,  —  and  the  lover  fled. 

But  the  eyes  that  burned  in  his  head 

Shot  love  through  each  and  all, 

For  the  lily  that  bloomed  by  the  wall 

Shone  sweet  in  every  place,  — 

In  the  earth,  and  the  sky  above, 

And  the  lover  saw  never  the  face 

Of  the  flower  that  died  of  love. 


8o  LYRICS 

Hush!  Hush  I  Let  no  sorrow  be  spoken/ 
Tho'  it  perish,  no  pity  shall  flout  it. 
Better  to  die  heart-broken 
Of  love  than  to  live  without  it  I 

THE  YOUNG  POET 


WHEN  I  am  dead  and  buried,  then 

There  will  be  mourning  among  men. 

I  hear  one  musing  on  my  dust : 
"How  hard  he  fought  to  win  his  crust." 

And  one,  "He  was  too  sensitive 

In  this  cold-wintered  world  to  live." 

Another,  weeping,  "Ah,  how  few 

So  gentle-hearted  and  so  true." 
"I  saw  him  only  once,  and  yet 

I  think  I  never  shall  forget 

The  strange,  sad  look  in  those  young  eyes," 

Another  says,  and  then  with  wise 

And  solemn-shaking  head  —  "No  doubt 

The  hot  heart  burned  that  frail  frame  out." 

ii 

Good  friends,  a  discount  on  your  grief! 

A  little  present  help  were  worth 

More  than  a  sorrow-stricken  earth 

When  I  am  but  a  withered  leaf. 

An  outstretched  hand  were  better  to  me 

Than  your  glib  graveyard  sympathy. 

You  need  not  pity  and  rhyme  and  paint  me, 

You  need  not  weep  for,  and  sigh  for,  and  saint  me 

After  you've  starved  me  —  driven  me  dead. 

Friends!  do  you  hear?  What  I  want  is  bread! 


A   SONG  OF  EARLY  AUTUMN  8 1 

A  SONG  OF  EARLY  AUTUMN 

WHEN  late  in  summer  the  streams  run  yellow, 
Burst  the  bridges  and  spread  into  bays; 

When  berries  are  black  and  peaches  are  mellow, 
And  hills  are  hidden  by  rainy  haze; 

When  the  goldenrod  is  golden  still, 

But  the  heart  of  the  sunflower  is  darker  and  sadder; 
When  the  corn  -is  in  stacks  on  the  slope  of  the  hill, 

And  slides  o'er  the  path  the  striped  adder; 

When  butterflies  flutter  from  clover  to  thicket, 
Or  wave  their  wings  on  the  drooping  leaf; 

When  the  breeze  comes  shrill  with  the  call  of  the  cricket, 
Grasshoppers'  rasp,  and  rustle  of  sheaf; 

When  high  in  the  field  the  fern-leaves  wrinkle, 
And  brown  is  the  grass  where  the  mowers  have  mown ; 

When  low  in  the  meadow  the  cow-bells  tinkle, 
And  small  brooks  crinkle  o'er  stock  and  stone. 

When  heavy  and  hollow  the  robin's  whistle 
And  shadows  are  deep  in  the  heat  of  noon; 

When  the  air  is  white  with  the  down  o'  the  thistle, 
And  the  sky  is  red  with  the  harvest  moon; 

O,  then  be  chary,  young  Robert  and  Mary, 
No  time  let  slip,  not  a  moment  wait! 
If  the  fiddle  would  play  it  must  stop  its  tuning, 
And  they  who  would  wed  must  be  done  with  their 

mooning; 

So,  let  the  churn  rattle,  see  well  to  the  cattle, 
And  pile  the  wood  by  the  barn-yard  gate! 


82  LYRICS 

THE  BUILDING   OF  THE  CHIMNEY 

i 

MY  chimney  is  builded 

On  a  hill  by  the  sea, 

At  the  edge  of  a  wood 

That  the  sunset  has  gilded 

Since  time  was  begun 

And  the  earth  first  was  done: 

For  mine  and  for  me 

And  for  you,  John  Burroughs, 

My  friend  old  and  good, 

At  the  edge  of  a  wood 

On  a  hill  by  the  sea 

My  chimney  is  builded. 

n 

My  chimney  gives  forth 
All  its  heat  to  the  north, 
While  its  right  arm  it  reaches 
Toward  the  meadows  and  beaches, 
And  its  left  it  extends 
To  its  pine-tree  friends. 
All  its  heat  to  the  north 
My  chimney  gives  forth. 

in 

My  chimney  is  builded 

Of  red  and  gray  granite: 

Of  great  split  boulders 

Are  its  thighs  and  its  shoulders; 

Its  mouth  —  try  to  span  it. 

'T  is  a  nine-foot  block  — 
The  shelf  that  hangs  over 


THE   BUILDING    OF   THE   CHIMNEY  83 

The  stout  hearth-rock. 
Then  the  lines  they  upswell 
Like  a  huge  church-bell, 
Or  a  bellying  sail 
In  a  stiff  south  gale 
When  the  ship  rolls  well, 
With  a  blue  sky  above  her. 

IV 

My  chimney  —  come  view  it, 
And  I'll  tell  you,  John  Burroughs, 
What  is  built  all  through  it : 
First  the  derrick's  shrill  creak, 
That  perturbed  the  still  air 
With  a  cry  of  despair. 
The  lone  traveler  who  past 
At  the  fall  of  the  night 
If  he  saw  not  its  mast 
Stood  still  with  affright 
At  a  sudden  strange  sound  — 
Hark!  a  woman's  wild  shriek? 
Or  the  baying  of  a  hound? 

Then  the  stone-hammer's  clink 
And  the  drill's  sharp  tinkle, 
And  bird-songs  that  sprinkle 
Their  notes  through  the  wood 
(With  pine  odors  scented), 
On  the  swift  way  to  drink 
At  the  spring  cold  and  good 
That  bubbles  'neath  the  stone 
Where  the  red  chieftain  tented 
In  the  days  that  are  gone. 


84  LYRICS 


Yes,  'twixt  granite  and  mortar 
Many  songs,  long  or  shorter, 
Are  imprisoned  in  the  wall; 
And  when  red  leaves  shall  fall, — 
Coming  home,  all  in  herds, 
From  the  air  to  the  earth,  — 
When  I  have  my  heart's  desire, 
And  we  sit  by  the  hearth 
In  the  glow  of  the  fire, 
You  and  I,  John  of  Birds, 
We  shall  hear  as  they  call 
From  the  gray  granite  wall; 
You  shall  name  one  and  all. 

There's  the  crow's  caw-cawing 
From  the  pine-tree's  hight, 
And  the  cat-bird's  sawing, 
The  hissing  of  the  adder 
That  climbed  the  rock  ladder, 
And  the  song  of  Bob  White; 
The  robin's  loud  clatter, 
The  chipmunk's  chatter, 
And  the  mellow-voiced  bell 
That  the  cuckoo  strikes  well ; 
Yes,  betwixt  the  stones  and  in 
There  is  built  a  merry  din. 

But  not  all  bright  and  gay 
Are  the  songs  we  shall  hear; 
For  as  day  turns  to  gray 
Comes  a  voice  low  and  clear  — 
Whippoorwill  sounds  his  wail 
Over  hill,  over  dale, 
Till  the  soul  fills  with  fright. 


THE   BUILDING   OF   THE  CHIMNEY  85 

'T  is  the  bird  that  was  heard 
On  the  fields  drenched  with  blood 
By  the  dark  southern  flood 
When  they  died  in  the  night. 


But  you  cannot  split  granite 

Howsoe'er  you  may  plan  it, 

Without  bringing  blood; 

(There's  a  drop  of  mine  there 

On  that  block  four-square). 

Certain  oaths,  I'm  aware, 

Sudden,  hot,  and  not  good 

(May  Heaven  cleanse  the  guilt !) 

In  these  stone  walls  are  built ;  — 

With  the  wind  through  the  pine-wood  blowing, 

The  creak  of  tree  on  tree, 

Child-laughter,  and  the  lowing 

Of  the  homeward-driven  cattle, 

The  sound  of  wild  birds  singing, 

Of  steel  on  granite  ringing, 

The  memory  of  battle, 

And  tales  of  the  roaring  sea. 

VI 

For  my  chimney  was  builded 
By  a  Plymouth  County  sailor, 
An  old  North  Sea  whaler. 
In  the  warm  noon  spell 
'T  was  good  to  hear  him  tell 
Of  the  great  September  blow 
A  dozen  years  ago :  — 
How  at  dawn  of  the  day 
The  wind  began  to  play, 


86  LYRICS 


Till  it  cut  the  waves  flat 

Like  the  brim  of  your  hat. 

There  was  no  sea  about, 

But  it  blew  straight  out 

Till  the  ship  lurcht  over; 

But  't  was  quick  to  recover, 

When,  all  of  a  stroke, 

The  hurricane  broke. 

Great  heavens!  how  it  roared, 

And  how  the  rain  poured; 

The  thirty-fathom  chain 

Dragged  out  all  in  vain. 
"What  next?"  the  captain  cried 

To  the  mate  by  his  side; 

Then  Tip  Ryder  he  replied: 
"  Fetch  the  ax  —  no  delay  — 

Cut  the  mainmast  away; 

If  you  want  to  save  the  ship 

Let  the  mainmast  rip!" 

But  another  said,  "Wait!" 

And  they  did  —  till  too  late. 

On  her  beam-ends  she  blew, 

In  the  sea  half  the  crew  — 

Struggling  back  through  the  wrack, 

There  to  cling  day  and  night. 

Not  a  sail  heaves  in  sight; 

And,  the  worst,  one  in  thirst 

(Knows  no  better,  the  poor  lad!) 

Drinks  salt  water  and  goes  mad. 
Eighty  hours  blown  and  tost, 

Five  good  sailors  drowned  and  lost, 

And  the  rest  brought  to  shore; 

—  Some  to  sail  as  before; 


A  RIDDLE   OF  LOVERS  87 

"  Not  Tip  Ryder,  if  he  starves 
Building  chimneys,  building  wharves." 

VII 

Now  this  was  the  manner 

Of  the  building  of  the  chimney. 

('T  is  a  good  old-timer, 

As  you,  friend  John,  will  own.) 

Old  man  Vail  cut  the  stone; 

William  Ryder  was  the  builder; 

Stanford  White  was  the  planner; 

And  the  owner  and  rhymer 

Is  Richard  Watson  Gilder. 


"A  WORD  SAID  IN  THE  DARK" 

A  WORD  said  in  the  dark 
And  hands  prest,  for  a  token; 
"Now,  little  maiden,  mark 
The  word  that  you  have  spoken; 
Be  not  your  promise  broken!" 

His  lips  upon  her  cheek 
Felt  tears  among  their  kisses; 
"O,  pardon  I  bespeak 
If  for  my  doubting  this  is! 
Now  all  my  doubting  ceases." 

A  RIDDLE  OF  LOVERS 

OF  my  fair  lady's  lovers  there  were  two 
Who  loved  her  more  than  all;  nor  she,  nor  they 
Guessed  which  of  these  loved  better,  for  one  way 
This  had  of  loving,  that  another  knew. 


88  LYRICS 

One  round  her  neck  brave  arms  of  empire  threw 
And  covered  her  with  kisses  where  she  lay; 
The  other  sat  apart,  nor  did  betray 
Sweet  sorrow  at  that  sight;  but  rather  drew 

His  pleasure  of  his  lady  through  the  soul 
And  sense  of  this  one.   So  there  truly  ran 
Two  separate  loves  through  one  embrace;  the  whole 

This  lady  had  of  both,  when  one  began 

To  clasp  her  close,  and  win  her  dear  lips'  goal. 
Now  read  my  lovers'  riddle  if  you  can. 

THE  DARK  ROOM 

(A  PARABLE) 


A  MAIDEN  sought  her  love  in  a  dark  room, — 
So  early  had  she  yearned  from  yearning  sleep, 
So  hard  it  was  from  her  true  love  to  keep, — 
And  blind  she  went  through  that  all-silent  gloom, 

Like  one  who  wanders  weeping  in  a  tomb. 
Heavy  her  heart,  but  her  light  ringers  leap 
With  restless  grasp  and  question  in  that  deep 
Unanswering  void.   Now  when  a  hand  did  loom 

At  last,  how  swift  her  warm  impassioned  face 
Prest  'gainst  the  black  and  solemn-yielding  air, 
As  near  more  near  she  groped  to  that  bright  place, 

And  seized  the  hand,  and  drowned  it  with  her  hair, 
And  bent  her  body  to  his  fierce  embrace, 
And  knew  what  joy  was  in  the  darkness  there. 

n 

Great  God!  the  arms  wherein  that  maiden  fell 
Were  not  her  lover's;  I  am  her  lover  —  I, 


WOODS   THAT  BRING  THE  SUNSET  NEAR      89 

Who  sat  here  in  the  shadows  silently, 
Thinking  —  at  last  the  longed-for  miracle ! 

Thinking  to  me  she  moved,  and  all  was  well. 
She  saw  me  not,  yet  dimly  could  descry 
That  beautiful  hand  of  his,  and  with  a  sigh 
Sank  on  his  fair  and  treacherous  breast.   The  spell 

Of  the  Evil  One  was  on  me.   All  in  vain 
I  strove  to  speak  —  my  parched  lips  were  dumb. 
See!  see!  the  wan  and  whitening  window-pane! 

See,  in  the  night,  the  awful  morning  bloom ! 
Too  late  she  will  know  all !  Heaven !  send  thy  rain 
Of  death,  nor  let  the  sun  of  wakening  come ! 

BEFORE  SUNRISE 

THE  winds  of  morning  move  and  sing; 
The  western  stars  are  lingering; 
In  the  pale  east  one  planet  still 
Shines  large  above  King  Philip's  hill;  — 

And  near,  in  gold  against  the  blue, 
The  old  moon,  in  its  arms  the  new. 
Lo,  the  deep  waters  of  the  bay 
Stir  with  the  breath  of  hurrying  day. 

Wake,  loved  one,  wake  and  look  with  me 

Across  the  narrow,  dawn-lit  sea! 

Such  beauty  is  not  wholly  mine 

Till  thou,  dear  heart,  hast  made  it  thine. 

"THE  WOODS  THAT  BRING  THE  SUNSET 
NEAR" 

THE  wind  from  out  the  west  is  blowing; 
The  homeward- wandering  cows  are  lowing; 


go  LYRICS 

Dark  grow  the  pine-woods,  dark  and  drear 
The  woods  that  bring  the  sunset  near. 

When  o'er  wide  seas  the  sun  declines, 
Far  off  its  fading  glory  shines,  — 
Far  off,  sublime,  and  full  of  fear,  — • 
The  pine-woods  bring  the  sunset  near. 

This  house  that  looks  to  east,  to  west, 
This,  dear  one,  is  our  home,  our  rest; 
Yonder  the  stormy  sea,  and  here 
The  woods  that  bring  the  sunset  near. 


SUNSET  FROM  THE  TRAIN 


BUT  then  the  sunset  smiled, 

Smiled  once  and  turned  toward  dark, 

Above  the  distant,  wavering  line  of  trees  that  filed 

Along  the  horizon's  edge; 

Like  hooded  monks  that  hark 

Through  evening  air 

The  call  to  prayer ;  — 

Smiled  once,  and  faded  slow,  slow,  slow  away; 

When,  like  a  changing  dream,  the  long  cloud-wedge, 

Brown-gray, 

Grew  saffron  underneath  and,  ere  I  knew, 

The  interspace,  green-blue  — 

The  whole,  illimitable,  western,  skyey  shore, 

The  tender,  human,  silent  sunset  smiled  once  more. 

ii 

Thee,  absent  loved  one,  did  I  think  on  now, 
Wondering  if  thy  deep  brow 


AFTER  SORROW'S   NIGHT  91 

In  dreams  of  me  were  lifted  to  the  skies, 
Where,  by  our  far  sea-home,  the  sunlight  dies; 
If  thou  didst  stand,  alone, 
Watching  the  day  pass  slowly,  slow,  as  here, 
But  closer  and  more  dear, 
Beyond  the  meadow  and  the  long,  familiar  line 
Of  blackening  pine; 

When  lo!  that  second  smile;  — dear  heart,  it  was  thine 
own. 

"AFTER  SORROW'S  NIGHT" 

AFTER  sorrow's  night 
Dawned  the  morning  bright. 
In  dewy  woods  I  heard 
A  golden-throated  bird, 

And  "Love,  love,  love,"  it  sang, 
And  "Love,  love,  love." 

Evening  shadows  fell 

In  our  happy  dell. 

From  glimmering  woods  I  heard 

A  golden-throated  bird, 

And  "Love,  love,  love,"  it  sang, 
And  "Love,  love,  love." 

O,  the  summer  night 
Starry  was  and  bright. 
In  the  dark  woods  I  heard 
A  golden-throated  bird, 

And  "Love,  love,  love,"  it  sang, 
And  "Love,  love,  love." 


Q2  LYRICS 

A  NOVEMBER   CHILD 

NOVEMBER  winds,  blow  mild 

On  this  new-born  child! 

Spirit  of  the  autumn  wood, 

Make  her  gentle,  make  her  good! 

Still  attend  her, 

And  befriend  her, 

Fill  her  days  with  warmth  and  color; 

Keep  her  safe  from  winter's  dolor. 

On  thy  bosom 

Hide  this  blossom 

Safe  from  summer's  rain  and  thunder! 

When  those  eyes  of  light  and  wonder 

Tire  at  last  of  earthly  places  — 

Full  of  years  and  full  of  graces, 

Then,  O,  then 

Take  her  back  to  heaven  again! 

AT   NIGHT 

THE  sky  is  dark,  and  dark  the  bay  below 
Save  where  the  midnight  city's  pallid  glow 
Lies  like  a  lily  white 
On  the  black  pool  of  night. 

O  rushing  steamer,  hurry  on  thy  way 
Across  the  swirling  Kills  and  gusty  bay, 
To  where  the  eddying  tide 
Strikes  hard  the  city's  side ! 

For  there,  between  the  river  and  the  sea, 
Beneath  that  glow,  —  the  lily's  heart  to  me, 
A  sleeping  mother  mild, 
And  by  her  breast  a  child! 


NINE  YEARS  Q3 

CRADLE  SONG 

IN  the  embers  shining  bright 
A  garden  grows  for  thy  delight, 
With  roses  yellow,  red,  and  white. 

But,  O  my  child,  beware,  beware ! 
Touch  not  the  blossoms  blowing  there, 
For  every  rose  a  thorn  doth  bear. 

"NINE   YEARS" 

NINE  years  to  heaven  had  flown, 

And  June  came,  with  June's  token  — 

The  wild  rose  that  had  known 
A  maiden's  silence  broken. 

'T  was  thus  the  lover  spoke, 
And  thus  she  leaned  and  listened 

(Below,  the  billows  broke, 
The  blue  sea  shook  and  glistened) :  — 

"We  have  been  happy,  Love, 

Through  bright  and  stormy  weather, 
Happy  all  hope  above, 

For  we  have  been  together. 

"To  meet,  to  love,  to  wed, — 

Joy  without  stint  or  measure, — 
This  was  our  lot,"  he  said, 

"To  find  untouched  our  treasure; 

"But  had  some  blindfold  fate 

Bound  each  unto  another  — 
To  turn  from  Heaven's  gate, 

Each  heart-throb  hide  and  smother! 


94  LYRICS 

"  O  dear  and  faithful  heart, 

If  thus  had  we  been  fated; 
To  meet,  to  know,  to  part  — 
Too  early,  falsely,  mated! 

"  Were  this  our  bitter  plight, 

Ah,  could  we  have  dissembled?" 
Her  cheek  turned  pale  with  fright; 
She  hid  her  face,  and  trembled. 

"BACK   FROM  THE   DARKNESS   TO   THE 
LIGHT  AGAIN" 

"BACK  from  the  darkness  to  the  light  again!"  — 
Not  from  the  darkness,  Love,  for  hadst  thou  lain 
Within  the  shadowy  portal  of  the  tomb, 
Thy  light  had  warmed  the  darkness  into  bloom. 


PART   II 

FATE 

I  FLUNG  a  stone  into  a  grassy  field ;  — 
How  many  tiny  creatures  there  may  yield 
(I  thought)  their  petty  lives  through  that  rude  shock! 
To  me  a  pebble,  't  is  to  them  a  rock  — 
Gigantic,  cruel,  fraught  with  sudden  death. 
Perhaps  it  crusht  an  ant,  perhaps  its  breath 
Alone  tore  down  a  white  and  glittering  palace, 
And  the  small  spider  damns  the  giant's  malice 
Who  wrought  the  wreck  —  blasted  his  pretty  art ! 

Who  knows  what  day  some  saunterer,  light  of  heart, 
An  idle  wanderer  through  the  fields  of  space, 
Large-limbed,  big-brained,  to  whom  our  puny  race 


FATE  95 

Seems  small  as  insects,  —  one  whose  footstep  jars 
On  some  vast  world-orb  islanded  by  stars,  — 
May  fling  a  stone  and  crush  our  earth  to  bits, 
And  all  that  men  have  builded  by  their  wits? 

"Ah,  what  a  loss!"  you  say;  "our  bodies  gey 
But  not  our  temples,  statues,  and  the  glow. 
Of  glorious  canvases;  and  not  the  pages 
Our  poets  have  illumed  through  myriad  ages. 
What  boots  the  insect's  loss  ?  Another  day . 
Will  see  the  selfsame  ant-hill  and  the  play  . 
Of  light  on  dainty  web  the  same.   But  blot 
All  human  art  from  this  terrestrial  plot, 
Something  indeed  would  pass  that  nevermore 
Would  light  the  universe  as  once  before!" 

The  spider's  work  is  not  original, — 
You  hold,  —  but  what  of  ours?  I  fear  that  all. 
We  do  is  just  the  same  thing  over  and  over. 
Take  Life:  you  have  the  woman  and  her  lover;. 
'T  is  old  as  Eden ;  naught  is  new  in  that ! 
Take  Building,  and  you  reach  ere  long  the  flat 
Nile  desert  sands,  by  way  of  France,  Rome,  Greece. 
And  there  is  poetry  —  our  bards  increase 
In  numbers,  not  in  sweetness,  not  in  force, 
Since  he,  sublimest  poet  of  this  globe, 
Forgotten  now,  poured  forth  the  chant  of  Job  — 
Where  Man  with  the  Eternal  holds  discourse. 
No,  no!   The  forms  may  change,  but  even  they 
Come  round  again.   Could  we  but  truly  scan  it, 
We'd  find  in  the  heavens  some  little,  busy  planet, 
Whence  all  we  are  was  borrowed.  If  to-day 
The  imagined  giant  flung  his  ponderous  stone, 
And  we  and  all  our  far-stretched  schemes  were  done, 
His  were  a  scant  remorse  and  short-lived  trouble,. 
Like  mine  for  those  small  creatures  in  the  stubble.. 


96  LYRICS 

"WE   MET  UPON  THE  CROWDED  WAY" 

i 

WE  met  upon  the  crowded  way; 

We  spoke  and  past.   How  bright  the  day 

Turned  from  that  moment,  for  a  light 

Did  shine  from  her  to  make  it  bright ! 

And  then  I  asked :  Can  such  as  she 

From  life  be  blotted  utterly  ? 

The  thoughts  from  those  clear  eyes  that  dawn  — 

Down  to  the  ground  can  they  be  drawn  ? 

ii 

Among  the  mighty  who  can  find 

One  that  hath  a  perfect  mind? 

Angry,  jealous,  curst  by  feuds, 

They  own  the  sway  of  fatal  moods; 

But  thou  dost  perfect  seem  to  me 

In  thy  divine  simplicity. 

Tho'  from  the  heavens  the  stars  be  wrenched, 

Thy  light,  dear  maid,  shall  not  be  quenched. 

Gentle,  and  true,  and  pure,  and  free  — 

The  gods  will  not  abandon  thee! 

THE  WHITE  AND  THE  RED  ROSE 


IN  Heaven's  happy  bowers 
There  blossom  two  flowers, 
One  with  fiery  glow 
And  one  as  white  as  snow; 
While  lo!  before  them  stands, 
With  pale  and  trembling  hands, 
A  spirit  who  must  choose 
One,  and  one  refuse. 


THE  WHITE  AND  THE  RED  ROSE  97 

n 

O,  tell  me  of  these  flowers 
That  bloom  in  heavenly  bowers, 
One  with  fiery  glow, 
And  one  as  white  as  snow ! 
And  tell  me  who  is  this 
In  Heaven's  holy  bliss 
Who  trembles  and  who  cries 
Like  a  mortal  soul  that  dies! 

in 

These  blossoms  two, 
Wet  with  heavenly  dew  — 
The  Gentle  Heart  is  one, 
And  one  is  Beauty's  own; 
And  the  spirit  here  that  stands, 
With  pale  and  trembling  hands, 
Before  to-morrow's  morn 
Will  be  a  child  new-born, 
Will  be  a  mortal  maiden 
With  earthly  sorrows  laden; 
But  of  these  shining  flowers 
That  bloom  in  heavenly  bowers, 
To-day  she  still  may  choose 
One,  and  one  refuse. 

IV 

Will  she  pluck  the  crimson  flower 
And  win  Beauty's  dower? 
Will  she  choose  the  better  part 
And  gain  the  Gentle  Heart? 
Awhile  she  weeping  waits 
Within  those  pearly  gates; 
Alas!  the  mortal  maiden 


LYRICS 

With  earthly  sorrow  laden; 
Her  tears  afresh  they  start  — 
She  has  chosen  the  Gentle  Heart. 

v 

And  now  the  spirit  goes, 
In  her  breast  the  snow-white  rose. 
When  hark !  a  voice  that  calls 
Within  the  garden  walls: 
"Thou  didst  choose  the  better  part, 
Thou  hast  won  the  Gentle  Heart  — 
Lo,  now  to  thee  is  given 
The  red  rose  of  Heaven." 

A  WOMAN'S  THOUGHT 

I  AM  a  woman  —  therefore  I  may  not 

Call  to  him,  cry  to  him, 

Fly  to  him, 

Bid  him  delay  not ! 

Then  when  he  comes  to  me,  I  must  sit  quiet; 

Still  as  a  stone  — 

All  silent  ajid  cold. 

If  my  heart  riot  — 

Crush  and  defy  it ! 

Should  I  grow  bold, 

Say  one  dear  thing  to  him, 

All  my  life  fling  to  him, 

Cling  to  him  — 

What  to  atone 

Is  enough  for  my  sinning! 

This  were  the  cost  to  me, 

This  were  my  winning  — 

That  he  were  lost  to  me. 


THE   RIVER   INN  99 

Not  as  a  lover 
At  last  if  he  part  from  me, 
Tearing  my  heart  from  me, 
Hurt  beyond  cure  — 
Calm  and  demure 
Then  must  I  hold  me, 
In  myself  fold  me, 
Lest  he  discover; 
Showing  no  sign  to  him 
By  look  of  mine  to  him 
What  he  has  been  to  me  — 
How  my  heart  turns  to  him, 
Follows  him,  yearns  to  him, 
Prays  him  to  love  me. 

Pity  me,  lean  to  me, 
Thou  God  above  me! 

THE  RIVER  INN 

THE  night  was  black  and  drear 

Of  the  last  day  of  the  year. 

Two  guests  to  the  river  inn 

Came,  from  the  wide  world's  bound  — 

One  with  clangor  and  din, 

The  other  without  a  sound. 

"  Now  hurry,  servants  and  host ! 
Get  the  best  that  your  cellars  boast. 
White  be  the  sheets  and  fine, 
And  the  fire  on  the  hearthstone  bright; 
Pile  the  wood,  and  spare  not  the  wine, 
And  call  him  at  morning-light." 


100  LYRICS 

"  But  where  is  the  silent  guest  ? 
In  what  chamber  shall  she  rest? 
In  this!    Should  she  not  go  higher? 
'T  is  damp,  and  the  fire  is  gone." 

"  You  need  not  kindle  the  fire, 
You  need  not  call  her  at  dawn." 

Next  morn  he  sallied  forth 
On  his  journey  to  the  North. 
O,  bright  the  sunlight  shone 
Through  boughs  that  the  breezes  stir; 
But  for  her  was  lifted  a  stone 
Under  the  churchyard  fir. 

THE  HOMESTEAD 


HERE  stays  the  house,  here  stay  the  selfsame  places, 

Here  the  white  lilacs  and  the  buttonwoods; 

Here  the  dark  pine-groves,  there  the  river-floods, 

And  there  the  threading  brook  that  interlaces 

Green  meadow-bank  with  meadow-bank  the  same. 

The  melancholy  nightly  chorus  came 

Long,  long  ago  from  the  same  pool,  and  yonder 

Stark  poplars  lift  in  the  same  twilight  air 

Their  ancient  lonelinesses;  nearer,  fonder, 

The  black-heart  cherry-tree's  gaunt  branches  bare 

Rasp  on  the  same  old  window  where  I  ponder. 

ii 

And  we,  the  only  living,  only  pass; 
We  come  and  go,  whither  and  whence  we  know  not. 
From  birth  to  bound  the  same  house  keeps,  alas! 
New  lives  as  gently  as  the  old;  there  show  not 


AT   FOUR   SCORE  IOI 

Among  the  haunts  that  each  had  thought  his  own 

The  looks  that  partings  bring  to  human  faces. 

The  black-heart  there,  that  heard  my  earliest  moan, 

And  yet  shall  hear  my  last,  like  all  these  places 

I  love  so  well,  unloving  lives  from  child 

To  child;  from  morning  joy  to  evening  sorrow  — 

Untouched  by  joy,  by  anguish  undented; 

All  one  the  generations  gone,  and  new; 

All  one  dark  yesterday  and  bright  to-morrow; 

To  the  old  tree's  insensate  sympathy 

All  one  the  morning  and  the  evening  dew  — 

My  far,  forgotten  ancestor  and  I. 

AT  FOUR  SCORE 

THIS  is  the  house  she  was  born  in,  full  four-score  years 
ago, 

And  here  she  is  living  still,  bowed  and  ailing,  but  clinging 

Still  to  this  wonted  life  —  like  an  ancient  and  blasted  oak- 
tree, 

Whose  dying  roots  yet  clasp  the  earth  with  an  iron  hold. 

This  is  the  house  she  was  born  in,  and  yonder  across  the 

bay 
Is  the  home  her  lover  builded,  for  her  and  for  him  and 

their  children ; 
Daily  she  watched  it  grow,  from  dawn  to  the  evening 

twilight, 
As  it  rose  on  the  orchard  hill,  'mid  the  springtime  showers 

and  bloom. 

There  is  the  village  church,  its  steeple  over  the  trees 
Rises  and  shows  the  clock  she  has  watched  since  the  day 
it  was  started  — 


102  LYRICS 

O,  many  a  year  ago,  how  many  she  cannot  remember. 
Now  solemnly  over  the  water  rings  out  the  evening  hour. 

And  there  in  that  very  church,  —  tho',  alas,  how  bediz 
ened,  and  changed! 

They've  painted  it  up,  she  says,  in  their  queer,  new, 
modern  fashion,  — 

There  on  a  morning  in  June,  she  gave  her  hand  to  her 
husband ; 

Her  heart  it  was  his  (she  told  him)  long  years  and  years 
before. 

Now  here  she  sits  at  the  window,  gazing  out  on  steeple 

and  hill; 
All  but  the  houses  are  gone,  —  the  church,  and  the  trees, 

and  the  houses;  — 
All,  all  have  gone  long  since,  parents,  and  husband,  and 

children ; 
And  herself  —  she  thinks,  at  times,  she  too  has  vanished 

and  gone. 

No,  it  cannot  be  she  who  stood  in  the  church  that  morn 
ing  in  June, 

Nor  she  who  felt  at  her  breast  the  lips  of  a  child  in  the 
darkness ; 

But  hark  in  the  gathering  dusk  comes  a  low,  quick  moan 
of  anguish  — 

Ah,  it  is  she  indeed,  who  has  lived,  who  has  loved,  and 
lost. 

For  she  thinks  of  a  wintry  night,  when  her  last  was  taken 

away, 
Forty  years  this  very  month,  the  last,  the  fairest,  the 

dearest ; 


JOHN   CARMAN  103 

All  gone  —  ah,  yes,  it  is  she  who  has  loved,  who  has 

lost,  and  suffered, 
She  and  none  other  it  is,  left  alone  in  her  sorrow  and  pain. 

Still  with  its  sapless  roots,  that  stay  tho'  the  branches 

have  dropt  — 
Have  withered,  and  fallen,  and  gone,  their  strength  and 

their  glory  forgotten; 
Still  with  the  life  that  remains,  silent,  and  faithful,  and 

stedfast, 
Through  sunshine  and  bending  storm  clings  the  oak  to 

its  mother-earth. 

JOHN  CARMAN 
i 

JOHN  CARMAN  of  Carmeltown 
Worked  hard  through  the  livelong  day; 

He  drove  his  awl  and  he  snapt  his  thread 
And  he  had  but  little  to  say. 

He  had  but  little  to  say 

Except  to  a  neighbor's  child; 
Three  summers  old  she  was,  and  her  eyes 

Had  a  look  that  was  deep  and  wild. 

Her  hair  was  heavy  and  brown 

Like  clouds  in  a  starry  night. 
She  came  and  sat  by  the  cobbler's  bench 

And  his  soul  was  filled  with  delight. 

No  kith  nor  kin  had  he 

And  he  never  went  gadding  about; 

A  strange,  shy  man,  the  people  said; 
They  could  not  make  him  out. 


104  LYRICS 

And  some  of  them  shook  their  heads 
And  would  never  tell  what  they'd  heard. 

But  he  drove  his  awl  and  snapt  his  thread  — 
And  he  always  kept  his  word; 

And  the  little  child  that  knew  him 

Better  than  all  the  rest, 
She  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck 

And  went  to  sleep  on  his  breast. 

One  day  in  that  dreadful  summer 
When  children  died  by  the  score, 

John  Carman  glanced  from  his  work  and  saw 
Her  mother  there  at  the  door. 

He  knew  by  the  look  on  her  face  — 
And  his  own  turned  deathly  white; 

He  rose  from  his  bench  and  followed  her  out 
And  watched  by  the  child  that  night. 

He  tended  her  day  and  night; 

He  watched  by  her  night  and  day. 
He  saw  the  cruel  pain  in  her  eyes; 

He  saw  her  lips  turn  gray. 

H 

The  day  that  the  child  was  buried 
John  Carman  went  back  to  his  last, 

And  the  neighbors  said  that  for  weeks  and  weeks 
Not  a  word  his  clencht  lips  past. 

"He  takes  it  hard,"  they  gossiped, 
"Poor  man,  he's  lacking  in  wit"; 

"I'll  drop  in  to-day,"  said  Deacon  Gray, 
"And  comfort  him  up  a  bit." 


JOHN   CARMAN  105 

So  Deacon  Gray  dropt  in 

With  a  kind  and  neighborly  air, 
And  before  he  left  he  knelt  on  the  floor 

And  wrestled  with  God  in  prayer. 

And  he  said :  "  O  Lord,  Thou  hast  stricken 

This  soul  in  its  babyhood; 
In  Thy  own  way,  we  beseech  and  pray, 

Bring  forth  from  evil  good." 

in 

That  night  the  fire-bells  rang 

And  the  flames  shot  up  to  the  sky, 

And  into  the  street  as  pale  as  a  sheet 
The  town-folk  flock  and  cry. 

The  bells  ring  loud  and  long, 
The  flames  leap  high  and  higher, 

The  rattling  engines  come  too  late  — 
The  old  First  Church  is  on  fire ! 

And  lo  and  behold  in  the  crimson  glare 
They  see  John  Carman  stand  — 

A  look  of  mirth  on  his  iron  lips 
And  a  blazing  torch  in  his  hand. 

"You  say  it  was  He  who  killed  her" 

(His  voice  had  a  fearful  sound) : 
"I'd  have  you  know,  who  love  Him  so, 

I've  burned  His  house  to  the  ground." 


John  Carman  died  in  prison, 
In  the  madman's  cell,  they  say; 

And  from  his  crime,  that  I've  told  in  rhyme, 
Heaven  cleanse  his  soul,  I  pray. 


106  LYRICS 

DRINKING  SONG 

THOU  who  lov'st  and  art  forsaken, 
Didst  believe  and  wert  mistaken, 
From  thy  dream  thou  wilt  not  waken 

When  Death  thee  shall  call. 
Like  are  infidel,  believer, 
The  deceived,  and  the  deceiver, 

When  the  grave  hides  all. 

What  if  thou  be  saint  or  sinner, 
Crooked  graybeard,  straight  beginner, — 
Empty  paunch,  or  jolly  dinner,— 

When  Death  thee  shall  call. 
All  alike  are  rich  and  richer, 
King  with  crown,  and  cross-legged  stitcher, 

When  the  grave  hides  all. 

Hope  not  thou  to  live  hereafter 
In  men's  memories  and  laughter, 
When,  'twixt  hearth  and  ringing  rafter, 

Death  thee  shall  call. 
For  we  both  shall  be  forgotten, 
Friend,  when  thou  and  I  are  rotten 

And  the  grave  hides  all. 

THE  VOYAGER 

I 

"FRIEND,  why  goest  thou  forth 
When  ice-hills  drift  from  the  north 
And  crush  together?" 

"The  Voice  that  me  doth  call 
Heeds  not  the  ice-hill's  fall, 

Nor  wind,  nor  weather." 


A   LAMENT  107 


"  But,  friend,  the  night  is  black ; 
Behold  the  driving  rack 

And  wild  seas  under!" 

"  My  straight  and  narrow  bark 
Fears  not  the  threatening  dark, 
Nor  storm,  nor  thunder." 

in 

"But  O,  thy  children  dear! 
Thy  wife,  —  she  is  not  here,  — 
I  haste  to  bring  her!" 

"No,  no,  it  is  too  late! 
Hush,  hush!  I  may  not  wait, 
Nor  weep,  nor  linger." 

IV 

"Hark!  Who  is  he  that  knocks 
With  slow  and  dreadful  shocks 
The  walls  to  sever?" 

"  It  is  my  Master's  call, 
I  go,  whate'er  befall; 

Farewell  forever." 

A  LAMENT 

FOR   THE  DEAD   OF  THE  JEANNETTE   BROUGHT 

HOME  ON  THE  FRISIA 

I 

O  GATES  of  ice !  long  have  ye  held  our  loved  ones. 

Ye  Cruel !  how  could  ye  keep  from  us  them  for  whom 
our  hearts  yearned  —  our  dear  ones,  our  fathers,  our 
children,  our  brothers,  our  lovers? 


108  LYRICS 

Cold  and  Sleet,  Darkness  and  Ice !  hard  have  ye  held 
them;  ye  would  not  let  them  go. 

Their  hands  ye  have  bound  fast;  their  feet  ye  have 
detained;  and  well  have  ye  laid  hold  upon  the  hearts  of 
our  loved  ones. 

O  silent  Arctic  Night !  thou  hast  wooed  them  from  us. 

O  Secret  of  the  white  and  unknown  world !  too  strong 
hast  thou  been  for  us;  we  were  as  nothing  to  thee;  thou 
hast  drawn  them  from  us;  thou  wouldst  not  let  them  go. 

The  long  day  past;  thou  wouldst  not  let  them  go. 

The  long,  long  night  came  and  went ;  thou  wouldst  not 
let  them  go. 

O  thou  insatiate !  What  to  thee  are  youth,  and  life,  and 
hope,  and  love? 

For  thou  art  Death,  not  Life;  thou  art  Despair,  not 
Hope. 

Naught  to  thee  the  rush  of  youthful  blood;  naught  to 
thee  the  beauty  and  strength  of  our  loved  ones. 

The  breath  of  their  bodies  was  not  sweet  to  thee ;  they 
loved  thee,  and  thou  lovedst  not  them. 

They  followed  thee,  thou  didst  not  look  upon  them; 
but  still,  O  thou  inviolate !  still  did  they  follow  thee. 

Thee  did  they  follow  through  storm,  through  perils  of 
the  ice,  and  of  the  unknown  darkness. 

The  sharp  spears  of  the  frost  they  feared  not;  the  ter 
rors  of  death  they  feared  not.  For  thee,  for  thee,  for  thee, 
not  for  us;  only  that  they  might  look  upon  thy  face! 

All  these  they  endured  for  thee;  the  thought  of  us 
whom  yet  they  loved,  this  also  they  endured  for  thee. 

For  thou  art  beautiful,  beyond  the  beauty  of  woman. 
In  thy  hair  are  the  stars  of  night.  Thou  wrappest  about 
thee  garments  of  fire  that  burn  not,  and  are  never  quenched ; 

When  thou  movest  they  are  moved;  when  thou  breathest 
they  tremble. 


A   LAMENT  IOQ 

Yea,  awful  art  thou  in  thy  beauty;  with  white  fingers 
beckoning  in  mists  and  shadows  of  the  frozen  sea;  draw 
ing  to  thee  the  hearts  of  heroes. 

H 

Long,  long  have  they  tarried  in  thy  gates,  O  North ! 

But  now  thou  hast  given  them  up.  Lo,  they  come  to  us 
once  more  —  our  beloved,  our  only  ones ! 

O  dearest,  why  have  ye  stayed  so  long? 

With  ye,  night  and  day  have  come  and  gone,  but  with 
us  there  was  night  only. 

But  no,  we  will  not  reproach  ye,  hearts  of  our  hearts, 
dearest  and  best;  our  fathers,  our  children,  our  brothers, 
our  lovers! 

Come  back  to  us !  Behold  our  arms  are  open  for  you ; 
ye  are  ours ;  ye  have  returned  unto  us ;  ye  shall  never  go 
hence  again. 

But  why  are  ye  silent,  why  do  ye  not  stir,  why  do  ye  not 
speak  to  us,  O  beloved  ones? 

White  are  your  cheeks  like  snow ;  your  eyes  they  do  not 
look  upon  us. 

So  long  ye  have  been  gone,  and  is  this  your  joy  to  see  us 
once  more? 

Lo !  do  we  not  welcome  ye  ?  Are  not  bur  souls  glad  ? 
Do  not  our  tears,  long  kept,  fall  upon  your  faces  ? 

Or  do  ye  but  sleep  well,  after  those  hard  and  weary 
labors?  O,  now  awaken,  for  ye  shall  take  rest  and  plea 
sure;  here  are  your  homes  and  kindred! 

Listen,  beloved :  here  is  your  sister,  here  is  your  brother, 
here  is  your  lover! 

in 

They  will  not  hearken  to  our  voices. 
They  are  still;  their  eyes  look  not  upon  us. 


1 10  LYRICS 

O  insatiate !  O  Secret  of  the  white  and  unknown  world, 
cruel  indeed  thou  art! 

Thou  hast  sent  back  to  us  our  best  beloved;  their 
bodies  thou  hast  rendered  up,  but  their  spirits  thou  hast 
taken  away  from  us  forever. 

In  life  thou  didst  hold  them  from  us  —  and  in  death, 
in  death  they  are  thine. 

NEW  YORK,  February  20,  1884. 

ILL  TIDINGS 

(THE  STUDIO  CONCERT) 

IN  the  long  studio  from  whose  towering  walls 
Greek  Phidias  beams,  and  Angelo  appalls, 
Eager  the  listening,  downcast  faces  throng 
While  violins  their  piercing  tones  prolong. 
At  times  I  know  not  if  I  see,  or  hear, 
Yon  statue's  smile,  or  some  not  sorrowing  tear 
Down-falling  on  the  surface  of  the  stream 
That  music  pours  across  my  waking  dream. 
Ah,  is  it  then  a  dream  that  while  repeat 
Those  chords,  like  strokes  of  silver-shod  light  feet, 
And  the  great  Master's  music  marches  on  — 
I  hear  the  horses  of  the  Parthenon? 

But  all  to-day  seems  vague,  unreal,  far, 
With  fear  and  discord  in  the  dearest  strain, 
For  'neath  yon  slowly-sinking  western  star 
One  that  I  love  lies  on  her  bed  of  pain. 

A  NEW  WORLD 

"I  KNOW,"  he  said, 

"  The  thunder  and  the  lightning  have  past  by 
And  all  the  earth  is  black,  and  burned,  and  dead; 


CONGRESS  III 

But,  friend,  the  grass  will  grow  again,  the  flowers 
Again  will  bloom,  the  summer  birds  will  sing, 
And  the  all-healing  sun  will  shine  once  more." 

"Blind  prophecy,"  she  answered  in  her  woe. 
Yet  still,  as  time  wore  on,  the  prophet's  words 
Came  true,  —  but  not  all  true.    (So  shall  it  be 
With  all  who  here  may  suffer  mortal  loss.) 
Ere  long  the  grass,  the  flowers,  the  birds,  the  sun 
Once  more  made  bright  the  bleak  and  desolate  earth; 
They  came  once  more,  those  joys  of  other  days; 
She  felt  them,  moved  among  them,  and  was  glad. 

Glad —  glad !  O  mocking  word !  They  came  once  more, 
But  not  the  same  to  her.   Familiar  they 
As  a  remembered  dream,  and  beautiful  — 
But  changed,  all  changed,  the  whole  world  changed  for 
ever. 


PART  III 

CONGRESS:   1878 

'T  WAS  in  the  year  when  mutterings,  loud  and  deep, 
Were  heard  in  all  the  dark,  distracted  land; 
And  grave  men  questioned :  "  Can  the  State  withstand 
The  shock  and  strain  to  come?   O,  will  she  keep 

Firm  her  four  walls,  should  the  wild  creature  leap 
To  ruin  and  ravish?   Will  her  pillars  planned 
By  the  great  dead,  tremble  to  either  hand? 
The  dead !  would  heaven  they  might  awake  from  sleep ! " 

Haply  (I  thought)  our  Congress  still  may  hold 
One  voice  of  power  —  when  lo !  upon  the  blast 
A  sound  like  jackals  ravening  to  and  fro. 

Great  God !  And  has  it  come  to  this  at  last  ? 

Such  noise,  such  shame,  where  once,  not  long  ago, 
The  pure  and  wise  their  living  thoughts  outrolled. 


112  LYRICS 

THE   CITY 

COME,  Spirit  of  Song!  true,  faithful  friend  of  mine! 
Oft  hast  thou  served  me  in  life's  warfare  rough; 
No  knight  of  old  found  lance  more  keen  or  tough 
At  tourney  or  in  dreadful  battle-line: 

Come,  tho'  they  own  thee  not,  the  Muses  Nine; 
Strike  one  more  blow,  —  the  past  is  not  enough,  — 
Not  now  for  Love's  sake,  nor  in  Fate's  rebuff, 
Nor  for  Provence  and  all  its  golden  wine: 

But  be  one  iron  scorn  for  this  huge  town 
Where  love  of  God  has  turned  to  lust  of  gold, 
And  civic  pride  in  private  greed  grows  cold; 

Where  speculation  stains  the  judge's  gown, 

And  where,  in  new-born  broods,  foul  beasts  of  prey 
Ravage  the  treasure-house  by  night  and  day. 

REFORM 

i 

O,  HOW  shall  I  help  to  right  the  world  that  is  going  wrong ! 
And  what  can  I  do  to  hurry  the  promised  time  of  peace ! 
The  day  of  work  is  short  and  the  night  of  sleep  is  long; 
And  whether  to  pray  or  preach,  or  whether  to  sing  a 

song, 

To  plow  in  my  neighbor's  field,  or  to  seek  the  golden  fleece, 
Or  to  sit  with  my  hands  in  my  lap,  and  wish  that  ill 

would  cease ! 

ii 

I  think,  sometimes,  it  were  best  just  to  let  the  Lord  alone; 
I  am  sure  some  people  forget  He  was  here  before  they 

came; 
Tho'  they  say  it  is  all  for  His  glory,  't  is  a  good  deal 

more  for  their  own, 


AT  GARFIELD'S  GRAVE  113 

That  they  peddle  their  petty  schemes,  and  blate  and 

babble  and  groan. 
I  sometimes  think  it  were  best,  and  a  man  were  little  to 

blame, 
Should  he  pass  on  his  silent  way  nor  mix  with  the  noisy 

shame. 

AT  GARFIELD'S  GRAVE 

(SEPTEMBER,  1881) 

ALL  summer  long  the  people  knelt 
And  listened  at  the  sick  man's  door : 

Each  pang  which  that  pale  sufferer  felt 

Throbbed  through  the  land  from  shore  to  shore; 

And  as  the  all-dreaded  hour  drew  nigh, 
What  breathless  watching,  night  and  day! 

What  tears,  what  prayers!  Great  God  on  high! 
Have  we  forgotten  how  to  pray! 

O  broken-hearted,  widowed  one, 

Forgive  us  if  we  press  too  near! 
Dead  is  our  husband,  father,  son, 

For  we  are  all  one  household  here. 

And  not  alone  here  by  the  sea, 

And  not  in  his  own  land  alone, 
Are  tears  of  anguish  shed  with  thee  — 

In  this  one  loss  the  world  is  one. 

EPITAPH 

A  man  not  perfect,  but  of  heart 

So  high,  of  such  heroic  rage, 
That  even  his  hopes  became  a  part 

Of  earth's  eternal  heritage. 


114  LYRICS 

MEMORIAL  DAY 

i 

SHE  saw  the  bayonets  flashing  in  the  sun, 
The  flags  that  proudly  waved;  she  heard  the  bugles  call 
ing; 

She  saw  the  tattered  banners  falling 
About  the  broken  staffs,  as  one  by  one 
The  remnant  of  the  mighty  army  past; 
And  at  the  last 
Flowers  for  the  graves  of  those  whose  fight  was  done. 

ii 

She  heard  the  tramping  of  ten  thousand  feet 
As  the  long  line  swept  round  the  crowded  square; 
She  heard  the  incessant  hum 
That  filled  the  warm  and  blossom-scented  air  — 
The  shrilling  fife,  the  roll  and  throb  of  drum, 
The  happy  laugh,  the  cheer.   O,  glorious  and  meet 
To  honor  thus  the  dead, 
Who  chose  the  better  part, 
Who  for  their  country  bled! 

—  The  dead!  Great  God!  she  stood  there  in  the  street, 
Living,  yet  dead  in  soul  and  mind  and  heart  — 
While  far  away 

His  grave  was  deckt  with  flowers  by  strangers'  hands 
to-day. 

THE  NORTH  TO   THE   SOUTH 

LAND  of  the  South,  —  whose  stricken  heart  and  brow 
Bring  grief  to  eyes  that  erewhile  only  knew 

For  their  own  loss  to  sorrow,  —  spurn  not  thou 
These  tribute  tears;  ah,  we  have  suffered  too. 

NEW  ORLEANS,  1885. 


THE   BURIAL  OF  GRANT  115 

THE   BURIAL   OF   GRANT 

(NEW  YORK,  AUGUST  8,  1885) 


YE  living  soldiers  of  the  mighty  war, 

Once  more  from  roaring  cannon  and  the  drums 
And  bugles  blown  at  morn,  the  summons  comes; 
Forget  the  halting  limb,  each  wound  and  scar; 
Once  more  your  Captain  calls  to  you; 
Come  to  his  last  review! 

ii 

And  come  ye,  too,  bright  spirits  of  the  dead, 

Ye  who  flamed  heavenward  from  the  embattled  field; 
And  ye  whose  harder  fate  it  was  to  yield 
Life  from  the  loathful  prison  or  anguished  bed; 
Dear  ghosts!  come  join  your  comrades  here 
Beside  this  sacred  bier. 

in 

Nor  be  ye  absent,  ye  immortal  band, — 
Warriors  of  ages  past,  and  our  own  age, — 
Who  drew  the  sword  for  right,  and  not  in  rage, 
Made  war  that  peace  might  live  in  all  the  land, 
Nor  ever  struck  one  vengeful  blow, 
But  helped  the  fallen  foe. 

IV 

And  fail  not  ye,  —  but,  ah,  ye  falter  not 
To  join  his  army  of  the  dead  and  living, — 
Ye  who  once  felt  his  might,  and  his  forgiving; 
Brothers,  whom  more  in  love  than  hate  he  smote. 
For  all  his  countrymen  make  room 
By  our  great  hero's  tomb ! 


Il6  LYRICS 

V 

Come,  soldiers  —  not  to  battle  as  of  yore, 

But  come  to  weep;  ay,  shed  your  noblest  tears; 
For  lo,  the  stubborn  chief,  who  knew  not  fears, 
Lies  cold  at  last,  ye  shall  not  see  him  more. 
How  long  grim  Death  he  fought  and  well, 
That  poor,  lean  frame  doth  tell. 

VI 

All 's  over  now ;  here  let  our  Captain  rest, 
Silent  amid  the  blare  of  praise  and  blame; 
Here  let  him  rest,  while  never  rests  his  fame; 
Here  in  the  city's  heart  he  loved  the  best, 
And  where  our  sons  his  tomb  may  see 
To  make  them  brave  as  he ;  — 

VII 

As  brave  as  he  —  he  on  whose  iron  arm 

Our  Greatest  leaned,  our  gentlest  and  most  wise; 
Leaned  when  all  other  help  seemed  mocking  lies, 
While  this  one  soldier  checked  the  tide  of  harm, 
And  they  together  saved  the  state, 
And  made  it  free  and  great. 

THE  DEAD   COMRADE 

At  the  burial  of  Grant,  a  bugler  stood  forth  and  sounded  "  taps." 
I 

COME,  soldiers,  arouse  ye ! 
Another  has  gone; 
Let  us  bury  our  comrade, 
His  battles  are  done. 
His  sun  it  is  set; 
He  was  true,  he  was  brave, 
He  feared  not  the  grave, 
There  is  naught  to  regret. 


THE   LIFE-MASK  OF   ABRAHAM  LINCOLN      1 17 


Bring  music  and  banners 
And  wreaths  for  his  bier  — 
No  fault  of  the  fighter 
That  Death  conquered  here. 

Bring  him  home  ne'er  to  rove, 
Bear  him  home  to  his  rest, 
And  over  his  breast 
Fold  the  flag  of  his  love. 

in 

Great  Captain  of  battles, 
We  leave  him  with  Thee! 
What  was  wrong,  O,  forgive  it; 
His  spirit  make  free. 

Sound  taps,  and  away! 
Out  lights,  and  to  bed! 
Farewell,  soldier  dead ! 
Farewell  —  for  a  day. 

ON  THE  LIFE-MASK  OF  ABRAHAM 
LINCOLN 

THIS  bronze  doth  keep  the  very  form  and  mold 
Of  our  great  martyr's  face.   Yes,  this  is  he : 
That  brow  all  wisdom,  all  benignity; 
That  human,  humorous  mouth;  those  cheeks  that  hold 

Like  some  harsh  landscape  all  the  summer's  gold; 
That  spirit  fit  for  sorrow,  as  the  sea 
For  storms  to  beat  on;  the  lone  agony 
Those  silent,  patient  lips  too  well  foretold. 

Yes,  this  is  he  who  ruled  a  world  of  men 
As  might  some  prophet  of  the  elder  day  — 
Brooding  above  the  tempest  and  the  fray 


LYRICS 

With  deep-eyed  thought  and  more  than  mortal  ken. 
A  power  was  his  beyond  the  touch  of  art 
Or  armed  strength  —  his  pure  and  mighty  heart. 

THE  PRESIDENT 

(WRITTEN  DURING  THE  FIRST  ADMINISTRATION  OF 
PRESIDENT  CLEVELAND) 

NOT  his  to  guide  the  ship  while  tempests  blow, 

War's  billows  burst,  and  glorious  thunders  beat; 

Not  his  the  joy  to  see  an  alien  foe 

Fly  down  the  dreadful  valley  of  defeat; 
Not  his  the  fame  of  that  great  soul  and  tried, 

Who  conquered  civil  peace  by  arms  and  love; 

Nor  his  the  emprize  of  one  who  lately  died 

Hand-claspt  with  foes,  who  weep  his  tomb  above. 
But  this  his  task,  —  all  passionless,  unsplendid,  — 

To  teach,  in  public  place,  a  nobler  creed; 

To  build  a  wall,  —  alone  or  well  befriended,  — 
'Gainst  the  base  partizan's  ignoble  greed. 

Or  will  he  fail,  or  triumph  ?  History  lays 

A  moment  down  her  pen.  A  nation  waits —  and  prays. 


PART  IV 
ESSIPOFF 


WHAT  is  her  playing  like? 

I  ask  —  while  dreaming  here  under  her  music's  power. 

'T  is  like  the  leaves  of  the  dark  passion-flower 

Which  grows  on  a  strong  vine  whose  roots,  O,  deep  they 

sink, 
Deep  in  the  ground,  that  flower's  pure  life  to  drink. 


ADELE   AUS   DER   OHE  IIQ 

II 

What  is  her  playing  like  ? 

'T  is  like  a  bird 

Who,  singing  in  a  wild  wood,  never  knows 

That  its  lone  melody  is  heard 

By  wandering  mortal,  who  forgets  his  heavy  woes. 

ADELE  AUS  DER  OHE 

(LISZT) 

i 

WHAT  is  her  playing  like? 

'T  is  like  the  wind  in  wintry  northern  valleys. 

A  dream-pause;  —  then  it  rallies 

And  once  more  bends  the  pine-tops,  suddenly  shatters 

The  ice-crags,  whitely  scatters 

The  spray  along  the  paths  of  avalanches, 

Startles  the  blood,  and  every  visage  blanches. 


Half-sleeps  the  wind  above  a  swirling  pool 
That  holds  the  trembling  shadow  of  the  trees; 
Where  waves  too  wildly  rush  to  freeze 
Tho'  all  the  air  is  cool; 
And  hear,  O,  hear,  while  musically  call 
With  nearer  tinkling  sounds,  or  distant  roar, 
Voices  of  fall  on  fall; 

And  now  a  swelling  blast,  that  dies;  and  now  —  no  more, 
no  more. 

(CHOPIN) 

AH,  what  celestial  art ! 

And  can  sweet  thoughts  become  pure  tone  and  float, 

All  music,  note  by  note, 

Into  the  tranced  mind  and  quivering  heart ! 


120  LYRICS 

Her  hand  scarce  stirs  the  singing,  wiry  metal  — 
Hear  from  the  wild-rose  fall  each  perfect  petal ! 

And  can  we  have,  on  earth,  of  heaven  the  whole, 
Or  be  to  heaven  upcaught, 
Hearing  the  soul  of  inexpressible  thought, 
Roses  of  sound 

That  strew  melodious  leaves  upon  the  silent  ground; 
And  music  that  is  music's  very  soul, 
Without  one  touch  of  earth, 
Too  tender,  even,  for  sorrow,  and  too  bright  for  mirth ! 

MODJESKA 

THERE  are  four  sisters  known  to  mortals  well, 

Whose  names  are  Joy  and  Sorrow,  Death  and  Love; 
This  last  it  was  who  did  my  footsteps  move 
To  where  the  other  deep-eyed  sisters  dwell. 

To-night,  or  ere  yon  painted  curtain  fell, 
These,  one  by  one,  before  my  eyes  did  rove 
Through  the  brave  mimic  world  that  Shakespeare  wove. 
Lady!  thy  art,  thy  passion  were  the  spell 

That  held  me,  and  still  holds;  for  thou  dost  show, 
With  those  most  high  each  in  his  sovereign  art, — 
Shakespeare  supreme,  and  Tuscan  Angelo,  — 

Great  art  and  passion  are  one.   Thine  too  the  part 
To  prove,  that  still  for  him  the  laurels  grow 
Who  reaches  through  the  mind  to  pluck  the  heart. 

THE  DRAMA 

(SUPPOSED  TO  BE  FROM  THE  POLISH) 

I  SAT  in  the  crowded  theater.  The  first  notes  of  the 
orchestra  wandered  in  the  air;  then  the  full  harmony  burst 
forth;  then  ceased. 


THE    DRAMA  121 

The  conductor,  secretly  pleased  with  the  loud  applause, 
waited  a  moment,  then  played  again;  but  as  he  struck 
upon  his  desk  for  the  third  time,  the  bell  sounded,  the 
just-beginning  tones  of  the  wind-instruments  and  the 
violins  husht  suddenly,  and  the  curtain  was  rolled  to 
the  ceiling. 

Then  appeared  a  wonderful  vision,  which  shall  not  soon 
be  forgotten  by  me. 

For  know  that  I  am  one  who  loves  all  things  beautiful. 
Did  you  find  the  figure  of  a  man  lying  solitary  upon  the 
wind-fashioned  hills  of  sand,  watching  the  large  sun  rise 
from  the  ocean?  That  was  I. 

It  was  I  who,  lonely,  walked  at  evening  through  the 
woods  of  autumn,  beholding  the  sun's  level  light  strike 
through  the  unfallen  red  and  golden  foliage,  — 

Whose  heart  trembled  when  he  saw  the  fire  that  rapidly 
consumed  the  dead  leaves  lying  upon  the  hillside,  and 
spread  a  robe  of  black  that  throbbed  with  crimson  jewels 
under  the  wind  of  the  rushing  flame. 

Know,  also,  that  the  august  forms  wrought  in  marble 
by  the  ancient  sculptors  have  power  upon  me,  also  the  ima 
ginative  works  of  the  incomparable  painters;  and  that  the 
voices  of  the  early  poets  are  modern  and  familiar  to  me. 

What  vision  was  it,  then,  that  I  beheld;  what  art  was 
it  that  made  my  heart  tremble  and  filled  me  with  joy  that 
was  like  pain? 

Was  it  the  art  of  the  poet ;  was  it  of  a  truth  poetry  made 
visible  in  human  attitudes  and  motions? 

Was  it  the  art  of  the  painter  —  which  Raphael  knew 
so  well  when  he  created  those  most  gracious  shapes  that 
yet  live  on  the  walls  of  the  Vatican? 

Or  was  it  the  severe  and  marvelous  art  of  the  sculp 
tor,  in  which  antique  Phidias  excelled,  and  which  Michael 
Angelo  indued  with  new  and  mighty  power? 


122  LYRICS 

Or,  haply,  it  was  that  enchanting  myth,  made  real 
before  our  eyes  —  of  the  insensate  marble  warmed  to  life 
beneath  the  passionate  gaze  of  the  sculptor! 

No,  no;  it  was  not  this  miracle,  of  which  the  bards 
have  so  often  sung;  nor  was  it  the  art  of  the  poet,  nor  of 
the  painter,  nor  of  the  musician  (tho'  often  I  thought 
of  music),  nor  of  the  sculptor.  It  was  none  of  these  that 
moved  my  heart,  and  the  hearts  of  all  who  beheld,  and 
yet  it  was  all  of  these, 

For  it  was  the  ancient  and  noble  art  of  the  drama,  — 
that  art  which  includes  all  other  arts,  —  and  she  who  was 
the  mistress  of  it  was  the  divine  Modjeska. 

FOR  AN  ALBUM 

(TO   BE   READ   ONE  HUNDRED   YEARS   AFTER) 

A  CENTURY'S  summer  breezes  shook 

The  maple  shadows  on  the  grass 
Since  she  who  owned  this  ancient  book 

From  the  green  world  to  heaven  did  pass. 

Beside  a  northern  lake  she  grew, 
A  wild-flower  on  its  craggy  walls; 

Her  eyes  were  mingled  gray  and  blue, 
Like  waves  where  summer  sunlight  falls. 

Cheerful  from  morn  to  evening-close, 
No  humblest  work,  no  prayer  forgot! 

Yet  who  of  woman  born  but  knows 
The  sorrows  of  our  mortal  lot! 

And  she  too  suffered,  tho'  the  wound 
Was  hidden  from  the  general  gaze, 

And  most  from  those  who  thus  had  found 
An  added  burden  for  their  days. 


PORTO.  FINO  123 

She  had  no  special  grace,  nor  art; 

Her  riches  not  in  banks  were  kept; 
Her  treasure  was  a  gentle  heart; 

Her  skill  to  comfort  those  who  wept. 

Not  without  foes  her  days  were  past, 

For  quick  her  burning  scorn  was  fanned. 

Her  friends  were  many  —  least  and  last, 
A  poet  from  a  distant  land. 

PORTO  FINO 

I  KNOW  a  girl  —  she  is  a  poet's  daughter, 

And  many-mooded  as  a  poet's  day, 
And  changing  as  the  Mediterranean  water; 

We  walked  together  by  an  emerald  bay, 

So  deep,  so  green,  so  promontory-hidden 
That  the  lost  mariner  might  peer  in  vain 

Through  storms,  to  find  where  he  erewhile  had  ridden, 
Safe-sheltered  from  the  wild  and  windy  main. 

Down  the  high  stairs  we  clambered  just  to  rest  a 
Cool  moment  in  the  church's  antique  shade. 

How  gay  the  aisles  and  altars!   'T  was  the  festa 
Of  brave  Saint  George  who  the  old  dragon  laid. 

How  bright  the  little  port!  The  red  flags  fluttered, 
Loud  clanged  the  bells,  and  loud  the  children's  glee; 

What  tho'  some  distant,  unseen  storm-cloud  muttered, 
And  waves  breathed  big  along  the  weedy  quay. 

We  climbed  the  hill  whose  rising  cleaves  asunder 

Green  bay  and  blue  immeasurable  sea; 
We  heard  the  breakers  at  its  bases  thunder; 

We  heard  the  priests'  harsh  chant  soar  wild  and  free. 


124  LYRICS 

Then    through    the    graveyard's    straight    and    narrow 
portal 

Our  journey  led.   How  dark  the  place !   How  strange 
Its  steep,  black  mountain  wall  —  as  if  the  immortal 

Spirit  could  thus  be  stayed  its  skyward  range! 

Beyond,  the  smoky  olives  clothed  the  mountains 
In  green  that  grew  through  many  a  moonlit  night. 

Below,  down  cleft  and  chasm  leapt  snowy  fountains; 
Above,  the  sky  was  warm,  and  blue,  and  bright; 

When,  sudden,  from  out  a  fair  and  smiling  heaven 
Burst  forth  the  rain,  quick  as  a  trumpet-blare; 

Yet  still  the  Italian  sun  each  drop  did  leaven, 
And  turned  the  rain  to  diamonds  in  the  air. 

So  past  the  day  in  shade,  and  shower,  and  sun, 
Like  thine  own  moods,   thou   sweet   and  changeful 
maiden ! 

Great  Heaven!  deal  kindly  with  this  gentle  one, 
Nor  let  her  soul  too  heavily  be  laden. 


IMPROMPTUS 

I  —  TO    F.    F.    C.    ON   THE   PANSY,   HER   CLASS   FLOWER 

THIS  is  the  flower  of  thought ; 

Take  it,  thou  empress  of  a  land 

Of  true  hearts,  from  a  loyal  subject's  hand; 

And  with  it  naught, 

O,  naught  beneath  life's  ever-brightening  dome 

Of  sad  remembrance!   May  it  bring 

Dreams  of  joy  only,  and  of  happy  days 

Backward  and  still  to  come; 


IMPROMPTUS  125 

Of  birds  that  sang  last  eve,  and  still  shall  sing 
In  dawns  of  morrows  only  joyful  lays. 

Or  yet,  if  thou  shouldst  go 
Not  utterly  unscathed  of  mortal  woe  — 
Thy  blackest  hour  be  touched  by  memory's  gold, 
As  is  this  flower's  leaf.   Then  shalt  thou  hold 
Ever  a  young  heart  in  thee,'  ever  as  now 
A  look  of  quenchless  youth  beneath  thy  peerless  brow. 

II  —  ART 

FOLLOWING  the  sun,  westward  the  march  of  power! 

The  Rose  of  Might  blooms  in  our  new-world  mart : 
But  see,  just  bursting  forth  from  bud  to  flower,  — 

A  late,  slow  growth,  —  the  fairer  Rose  of  Art. 

HI — TO  A   SOUTHERN   GIRL 

SWEET  rose  that  bloomed  on  the  red  field  of  war, 
Think  not  too  sadly  of  the  dreadful  Past ! 
Are  not  old  foes  new  friends  —  not  least,  tho'  last, 

One  whose  far  home  lies  'neath  yon  Northern  star? 

IV — FOR  A   FAN 

EACH  of  us  answers  to  a  call; 

Master  or  mistress  have  we  all. 

I  belong  to  lovely  Anne; 

Dost  thou  not  wish  thou  wert  a  fan? 

Thus  to  be  treasured,  thus  to  be  prest, 

Pleasuring  thus,  and  thus  carest? 

V  —  TO   T.    B.    A. 

IN  ACKNOWLEDGMENT  OF  A  BOOK  OF  PROSE 

YOUR  pretty  book  doth  please  me, 
Of  carks  and  cares  doth  ease  me; 
But  don't  forget,  my  boy, 


126  LYRICS 

Verse  is  your  true  employ. 
And  surely,  Thomas  Bailey, 
In  all  this  new-world  melee 
Too  seldom  comes  the  poet, 
And  when  he  does  we  know  it! 
Yes,  no  one  else  can  do 
The  work  that's  play  to  you. 
So  spend  your  precious  time  in 
Your  master  art  of  rhymin', 
Then  shall  you  keep  the  praise 
Of  these  and  future  days. 
1893. 

VI  —  A    THEME 

"  GIVE  me  a  theme,"  the  little  poet  cried, 

"And  I  will  do  my  part." 
"  'T  is  not  a  theme  you  need,"  the  world  replied, 

"You  need  a  heart." 

VH  —  THE   CHRISTMAS   TREE   IN   THE   NURSERY 
(FOR    F.   AND   R.) 

WITH  wild  surprise 
Four  great  eyes 
In  two  small  heads 
From  neighboring  beds 
Looked  out  —  and  winkt  — 
And  glittered  and  blinkt 
At  a  very  queer  sight 
In  the  dim  dawn-light. 
As  plain  as  can  be 
A  fairy  tree 
Flashes  and  glimmers 
And  shakes  and  shimmers. 
Red,  green,  and  blue 


IMPROMPTUS  127 

Meet  their  view; 
Silver  and  gold 
Sharp  eyes  behold; 
Small  moons,  big  stars; 
And  jams  in  jars, 
And  cakes  and  honey 
And  thimbles  and  money; 
Pink  dogs,  blue  cats, 
Little  squeaking  rats, 
And  candles  and  dolls 
And  crackers  and  polls, 
A  real  bird  that  sings, 
And  tokens  and  favors, 
And  all  sorts  of  things 
For  the  little  shavers. 

Four  black  eyes 
Grow  big  with  surprise, 
And  then  grow  bigger 
When  a  tiny  little  figure 
Jaunty  and  airy, 
A  fairy!  a  fairy! 
From  the  tree-top  cries: 
"Open  wide!  Black  Eyes! 
Come,  children,  wake  now! 
Your  joys  you  may  take  now." 

Quick  as  you  can  think 
Twenty  small  toes 
In  four  pretty  rows. 
Like  little  piggies  pink, 
All  kick  in  the  air  — 
And  before  you  can  wink 
The  tree  stands  bare! 


128  LYRICS 

PART  V 
MUSIC  AND  WORDS 


THIS  day  I  heard  such  music  that  I  thought: 

Hath  human  speech  the  power  thus  to  be  wrought, 

Into  such  melody,  —  pure,  sensuous  sound, — 

Into  such  mellow,  murmuring  mazes  caught; 

Can  words  (I  said),  when  these  keen  tones  are  bound 

(Silent,  except  in  memory  of  this  hour)  — 

Can  human  words  alone  usurp  the  power 

Of  trembling  strings  that  thrill  to  the  very  soul, 

And  of  this  ecstasy  bring  back  the  whole? 

ii 

Ah,  no  ('t  was  answered  in  my  inmost  heart), 
Unto  itself  sufficient  is  each  art, 
And  each  doth  utter  what  none  other  can  — • 
Some  hidden  mood  of  the  large  soul  of  man. 
Ah,  think  not  thou  with  words  well  interweaved 
To  wake  the  tones  wherein  the  viol  grieved 
With  its  most  heavy  burden;  think  not  thou, 
Adventurous,  to  push  thy  shallop's  prow 
Into  that  surge  of  well-remembered  tones, 
Striving  to  match  each  wandering  wind  that  moans, 
Each  bell  that  tolls,  and  every  bugle's  blowing 
With  some  most  fitting  word,  some  verse  bestowing 
A  never-shifting  form  on  that  which  past 
Swift  as  a  bird  that  glimmers  down  the  blast. 

in 

So,  still  unworded,  save  in  memory  mute, 
Rest  thou  sweet  hour  of  viol  and  of  lute; 


THE   POET'S    FAME  129 

Of  thoughts  that  never,  never  can  be  spoken, 
Too  frail  for  the  rough  usage  of  men's  words  — 
Thoughts  that  shall  keep  their  silence  all  unbroken 
Till  music  once  more  stirs  them ;  —  then  like  birds 
That  in  the  night-time  slumber,  they  shall  wake, 
While  all  the  leaves  of  all  the  forest  shake. 
O,  hark!  I  hear  it  now,  that  tender  strain 
Fulfilled  with  all  of  sorrow  save  its  pain. 

THE  POET'S  FAME 

MANY  the  songs  of  power  the  poet  wrought 
To  shake  the  hearts  of  men.   Yea,  he  had  caught 
The  inarticulate  and  murmuring  sound 
That  comes  at  midnight  from  the  darkened  ground 
When  the  earth  sleeps;  for  this  he  framed  a  word 
Of  human  speech,  and  hearts  were  strangely  stirred 
That  listened.^j^nd  for  him  the  evening  dew 
Fell  with  a  sound  of  music,  and  the  blue 
Of  the  deep,  starry  sky  he  had  the  art 
To  put  in  language  that  did  seem  a  part 
Of  the  great  scope  and  progeny  of  n 
In  woods,  or  waves,  or  winds,  there  was  no  creature 
Mysterious  to  him.   He  was  too  wise 
Either  to  fear,  or  follow,  or  despise 
Whom  men  call  Science  —  for  he  knew  full  well 
All  she  had  told,  or  still  might  live  to  tell, 
Was  known  to  him  before  her  very  birth; 
Yea,  that  there  was  no  secret  of  the  earth, 
Nor  of  the  waters  under,  nor  the  skies, 
That  had  been  hidden  from  the  poet's  eyes; 
By  him  there  was  no  ocean  unexplored, 
Nor  any  savage  coast  that  had  not  roared 
Its  music  in  his  ears. 


130  LYRICS 

He  loved  the  town  — 

Not  less  he  loved  the  ever-deepening  brown 
Of  summer  twilights  on  the  enchanted  hills; 
And  long  would  listen  to  the  starts  and  thrills 
Of  birds  that  sang  and  rustled  in  the  trees, 
Or  watch  the  footsteps  of  the  wandering  breeze 
And  the  quick,  winged  shadows  flashing  by, 
Or  birds  that  slowly  wheeled  across  the  unclouded  sky. 

All  these  were  written  on  the  poet's  soul; 
But  he  knew,  too,  the  utmost,  distant  goal 
Of  the  human  mind.   His  fiery  thought  did  run 
To  Time's  beginning,  ere  yon  central  sun 
Had  warmed  to  life  the  swarming  broods  of  men. 
In  waking  dreams,  his  many-visioned  ken 
Clutcht  the  large,  final  destiny  of  things. 
He  heard  the  starry  music,  and  the  wings 
Of  beings  unfelt  by  others  thrilled  the  air 
About  him.   Yet  the  loud  and  angry  blare 
Of  tempests  found  an  echo  in  his  verse, 
And  it  was  here  that  lovers  did  rehearse 
The  ditties  they  would  sing  when,  not  too  soon, 
Came  the  warm  night ;  —  shadows,  and  stars,  and  moon. 

Who  heard  his  songs  were  filled  with  noble  rage, 
And  wars  took  fire  from  his  prophetic  page  — 
Most  righteous  wars,  wherein,  'midst  blood  and  tears, 
The  world  rushed  onward  through  a  thousand  years. 
And  still  he  made  the  gentle  sounds  of  peace 
Heroic ;  bade  the  nation's  anger  cease ! 
Bitter  his  songs  of  grief  for  those  who  fell  — 
And  for  all  this  the  people  loved  him  well. 

They  loved  him  well  and  therefore,  on  a  day, 
They  said  with  one  accord :  "  Behold  how  gray 


THE   POET'S   PROTEST  131 

Our  poet's  head  hath  grown !   Ere  Jt  is  too  late 
Come,  let  us  crown  him  in  our  Hall  of  State; 
Ring  loud  the  bells,  give  to  the  winds  his  praise, 
And  urge  his  fame  to  other  lands  and  days!" 
So  was  it  done,  and  deep  his  joy  therein. 
But  passing  home  at  night,  from  out  the  din 
Of  the  loud  Hall,  the  poet,  unaware, 
Moved  through  a  lonely  and  dim-lighted  square  — 
There  was  the  smell  of  lilacs  in  the  air 
And  then  the  sudden  singing  of  a  bird, 
Startled  by  his  slow  tread.   What  memory  stirred 
Within  his  brain  he  told  not.   Yet  this  night, — 
Lone  lingering  when  the  eastern  heavens  were  bright,  — 
He  wove  a  song  of  such  immortal  art 
That  there  lives  not  in  all  the  world  one  heart  — 
One  human  heart  unmoved  by  it.   Long!  long! 
The  laurel-crown  has  failed,  but  not  that  song 
Born  of  the  night  and  sorrow.   Where  he  lies 
At  rest  beneath  the  ever-shifting  skies, 
Age  after  age,  from  far-off  lands  they  come, 
With  tears  and  flowers,  to  seek  the  poet's  tomb. 

THE  POET'S   PROTEST 

O  MAN  with  your  rule  and  measure, 

Your  tests  and  analyses ! 
You  may  take  your  empty  pleasure, 

May  kill  the  pine,  if  you  please; 
You  may  count  the  rings  and  the  seasons, 

May  hold  the  sap  to  the  sun, 
You  may  guess  at  the  ways  and  the  reasons 

Till  your  little  day  is  done. 

But  for  me  the  golden  crest 

That  shakes  in  the  wind  and  launches 


132  LYRICS 

Its  spear  toward  the  reddening  West! 

For  me  the  bough  and  the  breeze, 
The  sap  unseen,  and  the  glint 

Of  light  on  the  dew-wet  branches, 
The  hiding  shadows,  the  hint 

Of  the  soul  of  mysteries. 

You  may  sound  the  sources  of  life, 

And  prate  of  its  aim  and  scope; 
You  may  search  with  your  chilly  knife 

Through  the  broken  heart  of  hope. 
But  for  me  the  love-sweet  breath, 

And  the  warm,  white  bosom  heaving, 
And  never  a  thought  of  death, 

And  only  the  bliss  of  living. 

TO  A  YOUNG  POET 

IN  the  morning  of  the  skies 
I  heard  a  lark  arise. 
On  the  first  day  of  the  year 
A  wood-flower  did  appear. 

Like  a  violet,  like  a  lark, 
Like  the  dawn  that  kills  the  dark, 
Like  a  dewdrop,  trembling,  clinging, 
Is  the  poet's  first  sweet  singing. 

"WHEN  THE  TRUE  POET  COMES" 

"WHEN  the  true  poet  comes,  how  shall  we  know  him? 

By  what  clear  token;  manners,  language,  dress? 
Or  will  a  voice  from  heaven  speak  and  show  him  — 
Him  the  swift  healer  of  the  earth's  distress? 


YOUTH   AND   AGE  133 

Tell  us,  that  when  the  long-expected  comes 

At  last,  with  mirth  and  melody  and  singing, 
We  him  may  greet  with  banners,  beat  of  drums, 
Welcome  of  men  and  maids  and  joybells  ringing; 
And,  for  this  poet  of  ours, 
Laurels  and  flowers." 

Thus  shall  ye  know  him,  this  shall  be  his  token  — 

Manners  like  other  men,  an  unstrange  gear; 
His  speech  not  musical,  but  harsh  and  broken 

Will  sound  at  first,  each  line  a  driven  spear. 
For  he  will  sing  as  in  the  centuries  olden, 

Before  mankind  its  earliest  fire  forgot  — 
Yet  whoso  listens  long  hears  music  golden. 

How  shall  ye  know  him?   Ye  shall  know  him  not 
Till,  ended  hate  and  scorn, 
To  the  grave  he's  borne. 


YOUTH  AND   AGE 

"I  LIKE  your  book,  my  boy, 
'T  is  full  of  youth  and  joy, 
And  love  that  sings  and  dreams. 
Yet  it  puzzles  me,"  he  said; 

"  A  string  of  pearls  it  seems, 
But  I  cannot  find  the  thread." 


"  O  friend  of  olden  days ! 
Dear  to  me  is  your  praise, 
But,  many  and  many  a  year 
You  must  go  back,  I  fear; 
You  must  journey  back,"  I  said, 

"To  find  that  golden  thread!" 


134  LYRICS 

THE  SONNET 

WHAT  is  a  sonnet  ?   'T  is  the  pearly  shell 

That  murmurs  of  the  far-off  murmuring  sea; 

A  precious  jewel  carved  most  curiously; 

It  is  a  little  picture  painted  well. 
What  is  a  sonnet?   'T  is  the  tear  that  fell 

From  a  great  poet's  hidden  ecstasy; 

A  two-edged  sword,  a  star,  a  song  —  ah  me ! 

Sometimes  a  heavy-tolling  funeral  bell. 
This  was  the  flame  that  shook  with  Dante's  breath; 

The  solemn  organ  whereon  Milton  played, 
•  And  the  clear  glass  where  Shakespeare's  shadow  falls : 
A  sea  this  is  —  beware  who  ventureth ! 

For  like  a  fiord  the  narrow  floor  is  laid 

Mid-ocean  deep  sheer  to  the  mountain  walls. 

A  SONNET  OF  DANTE 

("Tanto  gentile  e  tanto  onesta  pare") 

So  fair,  so  pure  my  lady  as  she  doth  go 
Upon  her  way,  and  others  doth  salute, 
That  every  tongue  becometh  trembling-mute, 
And  every  eye  is  troubled  by  that  glow. 

Her  praise  she  hears  as  on  she  moveth  slow, 
Clothed  with  humility  as  with  a  suit; 
She  seems  a  thing  that  came  (without  dispute) 
From  heaven  to  earth  a  miracle  to  show. 

Through  eyes  that  gaze  on  her  benignity 
There  passes  to  the  heart  a  sense  so  sweet 
That  none  can  understand  who  may  not  prove; 

And  from  her  countenance  there  seems  to  move 
A  gentle  spirit,  with  all  love  replete, 
That  to  the  soul  comes,  saying,  "Sigh,  O,  sigh!" 


KEATS  135 

THE  NEW  TROUBADOURS 
(AVIGNON,  1879) 

THEY  said  that  all  the  troubadours  had  flown  — 
No  bird  to  flash  a  wing  or  swell  a  throat ! 
But  as  we  journeyed  down  the  rushing  Rhone 
To  Avignon,  what  joyful  note  on  note 

Burst  forth  beneath  thy  shadow,  O  Ventour! 
Whose  eastward  forehead  takes  the  dawn  divine ;  — 
Ah,  dear  Provence!  ah,  happy  troubadour, 
And  that  sweet,  mellow,  antique  song  of  thine! 

First,  Roumanille,  the  leader  of  the  choir, 

Then  graceful  Matthieu,  tender,  sighing,  glowing, 
Then  Wyse  all  fancy,  Aubanel  all  fire, 

And  Mistral,  mighty  as  the  north-wind's  blowing; 
And  youthful  Gras,  and  lo !  among  the  rest 
A  mother-bird  who  sang  above  her  nest. 

KEATS 

TOUCH  not  with  dark  regret  his  perfect  fame, 

Sighing,  "Had  he  but  lived  he  had  done  so"; 

Or,  "  Were  his  heart  not  eaten  out  with  woe 

John  Keats  had  won  a  prouder,  mightier  name!" 
Take  him  for  what  he  was  and  did  — •  nor  blame 

Blind  fate  for  all  he  suffered.   Thou  shouldst  know 

Souls  such  as  his  escape  no  mortal  blow  — 

No  agony  of  joy,  or  sorrow,  or  shame ! 
"  Whose  name  was  writ  in  water ! "  What  large  laughter 

Among  the  immortals  when  that  word  was  brought ! 

Then  when  his  fiery  spirit  rose  flaming  after 
High  toward  the  topmost  heaven  of  heavens  up-caught ! 

"All  hail!  our  younger  brother!"  Shakespeare  said, 

And  Dante  nodded  his  imperial  head. 


136  LYRICS 

AN  INSCRIPTION  IN  ROME 
(PIAZZA  DI  SPAGNA) 

SOMETHING  there  is  in  Death  not  all  unkind; 
He  hath  a  gentler  aspect,  looking  back; 
For  flowers  may  bloom  in  the  dread  thunder's  track, 
And  even  the  cloud  that  struck  with  light  was  lined. 

Thus,  when  the  heart  is  silent,  speaks  the  mind; 
But  there  are  moments  when  comes  rushing,  black 
And  fierce  upon  us,  the  old,  awful  lack, 
And  Death  once  more  is  cruel,  senseless,  blind. 

So  when  I  saw  beside  a  Roman  portal 

"  In  this  house  died  John  Keats  "  —  for  tears  that  sprung 
I  could  no  further  read.   O  bard  immortal ! 

Not  for  thy  fame's  sake  —  but  so  young,  so  young ; 
Such  beauty  vanished;  spilled  such  heavenly  wine; 
All  quenched  that  power  of  deathless  song  divine ! 

DESECRATION 

THE  poet  died  last  night; 

Outworn  his  mortal  frame. 
He  hath  fought  well  the  fight, 

And  won  a  deathless  name. 

Bring  laurel  for  his  bier, 

And  flowers  to  deck  the  hearse. 

The  tribute  of  a  tear 
To  his  immortal  verse. 

Husht  is  that  piercing  strain  — 
Who  heard,  for  pleasure  wept. 

His  were  our  joy  and  pain ; 
He  sang  —  our  sorrow  slept. 


JOCOSERIA  137 

Yes,  weep  for  him;  no  more 

Shall  such  high  songs  have  birth; 

Gone  is  the  harp  he  bore 
Forever  from  the  earth. 

Weep,  weep,  and  scatter  flowers 

Above  his  precious  dust; 
Child  of  the  heavenly  powers  — 

Divine,  and  pure,  and  just. 

Weep,  weep  —  for  when  to-night 

Shall  hoot  the  horned  owl, 
Beneath  the  pale  moon's  light 

The  human  ghouls  will  prowl. 

What  creatures  those  will  throng 

Within  the  sacred  gloom, 
To  do  our  poet  wrong  — 

To  break  the  sealed  tomb  ? 

Not  the  great  world  and  gay 

That  pities  not,  nor  halts 
By  thoughtless  night  or  day, 

But,  —  O  more  sordid-false !  — 

His  trusted  friend  and  near, 

To  whom  his  spirit  moved; 
The  brother  he  held  dear; 

The  woman  that  he  loved. 

"JOCOSERIA" 

MEN  grow  old  before  their  time, 
With  the  journey  half  before  them; 

In  languid  rhyme 
They  deplore  them. 


I38  LYRICS 

Life  up-gathers  carks  and  cares, 
So  good-by  to  maid  and  lover! 

Find  three  gray  hairs, 
And  cry,  "All  's  over!" 

Look  at  Browning!   How  he  keeps 
In  the  seventies  still  a  heart 

That  never  sleeps  — 
Still  an  art 

Full  of  youth's  own  grit  and  power, 
Thoughts  we  deemed  to  boys  belonging; 

The  springtime's  flower  — 
Love-and-longing. 

TO  AN  ENGLISH  FRIEND 
WITH  EMERSON'S  "POEMS" 

EDMUND,  in  this  book  you'll  find 

Music  from  a  prophet's  mind. 

Even  when  harsh  the  numbers  be, 

There rs  an  inward  melody; 

And  when  sound  is  one  with  sense, 

'T  is  a  bird's  song,  sweet,  intense. 

Chide  me  not  the  book  is  small, 

For  in  it  lies  our  all  in  all. 

We  who  in  El  Dorado  live 

Have  no  better  gift  to  give. 

When  no  more  is  silver  mill, 

Golden  stream,  or  iron  hill  — 

Search  the  New  World  from  pole  to  pole, 

Here  you'll  find  its  singing  soul! 


OUR   ELDER   POETS  139 

OUR  ELDER   POETS 

(1878) 

HE  is  gone!  We  shall  not  see  again 
That  reverend  form,  those  silver  locks; 

Silent  at  last  the  iron  pen 
And  words  that  poured  like  molten  rocks. 

He  is  gone,  and  we  who  thought  him  cold 
Miss  from  our  lives  a  generous  heat, 

And  know  that  stolid  form  did  hold 
A  fire  that  burned,  a  heart  that  beat. 

He  is  gone,  but  other  bards  remain  — 
Our  gray  old  prophet,  young  at  heart; 

Our  scholar-poet's  patriot  strain; 
And  he  of  the  wise  and  mellow  art. 

And  he  who  first  to  Science  sought, 

But  to  the  Merry  Muses  after; 
Who  learned  a  secret  never  taught — • 

The  knowledge  of  men's  tears  and  laughter. 

He  also  in  whose  music  rude 

Our  peopled  hills  and  prairies  speak, 

Resounding,  in  his  modern  mood, 
The  tragic  fury  of  the  Greek. 

And  he,  too,  lingers  round  about 

The  darling  city  of  his  birth  — 
The  bard  whose  gray  eyes  looking  out 

Find  scarce  one  peer  in  all  the  earth. 


140  LYRICS 

LONGFELLOW'S   "BOOK  OF  SONNETS" 

'TWAS  Sunday  evening  as  I  wandered  down 
The  central  highway  of  this  swarming  place, 
And  felt  a  pleasant  stillness  —  not  a  trace 
Of  Saturday's  harsh  turmoil  in  the  town; 

Then  as  a  gentle  breeze  just  stirs  a  gown, 
Yet  almost  motionless,  or  as  the  face 
Of  silence  smiles,  I  heard  the  chimes  of  "Grace" 
Sound   murmuring  through  the  autumn    evening's 
brown. 

To-day,  again,  I  past  along  Broadway 
In  the  fierce  tumult  and  mid-noise  of  noon, 
While  'neath  my  feet  the  solid  pavement  shook; 

When  lo !  it  seemed  that  bells  began  to  play 
Upon  a  Sabbath  eve  a  silver  tune  — 
For  as  I  walked  I  read  the  poet's  book. 

"H.  H." 

I  WOULD  that  in  the  verse  she  loved  some  word, 
Not  all  unfit,  I  to  her  praise  might  frame  — 
Some  word  wherein  the  memory  of  her  name 
Should  through  long  years  its  incense  still  afford. 

But  no,  her  spirit  smote  with  its  own  sword; 
Herself  has  lit  the  fire  whose  blood-red  flame 
Shall  not  be  quenched  —  this  is  her  living  fame 
Who  struck  so  well  the  sonnet's  subtile  chord. 

None  who  e'er  knew  her  can  believe  her  dead ; 
Tho'  should  she  die  they  deem  it  well  might  be 
Her  spirit  took  its  everlasting  flight 

In  summer's  glory,  by  the  sunset  sea  — 

That  onward  through  the  Golden  Gate  it  fled. 
Ah,  where  that  bright  soul  is  cannot  be  night. 


THE   MODERN   RHYMER  141 

THE  MODERN  RHYMER 


Now  you  who  rhyme,  and  I  who  rhyme, 

Have  not  we  sworn  it,  many  a  time, 

That  we  no  more  our  verse  would  scrawl, 

For  Shakespeare  he  had  sung  it  all ! 

And  yet,  whatever  others  see, 

The  earth  is  fresh  to  you  and  me; 

And  birds  that  sing,  and  winds  that  blow, 

And  blooms  that  make  the  country  glow, 

And  lusty  swains,  and  maidens  bright, 

And  clouds  by  day,  and  stars  by  night, 

And  all  the  pictures  in  the  skies 

That  moved  before  Will  Shakespeare's  eyes; 

Love,  hate,  and  scorn;  frost,  fire,  and  flower; 

On  us  as  well  as  him  have  power. 

Go  to!  our  spirits  shall  not  be  laid, 

Silenced  and  smothered  by  a  shade. 

Avon  is  not  the  only  stream 

Can  make  a  poet  sing  and  dream; 

Nor  are  those  castles,  queens,  and  kings 

The  hight  of  sublunary  things. 

ii 

Beneath  the  false  moon's  pallid  glare, 
By  the  cool  fountain  in  the  square 
(This  gray-green  dusty  square  they  set 
Where  two  gigantic  highways  met) 
We  hear  a  music  rare  and  new, 
Sweet  Shakespeare  was  not  known  to  you! 
You  saw  the  New  World's  sun  arise; 
High  up  it  shines  in  our  own  skies. 
You  saw  the  ocean  from  the  shore; 


142  LYRICS 

Through  mid-seas  now  our  ship  doth  roar 
A  wild,  new,  teeming  world  of  men 
That  wakens  in  the  poet's  brain 
Thoughts,  that  were  never  thought  before, 
Of  hope,  and  longing,  and  despair, 
Wherein  man's  never-resting  race 
Westward,  still  westward,  on  doth  fare, 
Doth  still  subdue,  and  still  aspire, 
Or  turning  on  itself  doth  face 
Its  own  indomitable  fire;  — 
O  million-centuried  thoughts  that  make 
The  Past  seem  but  a  shallop's  wake  I 


TWO   WORLDS 

AND   OTHER  POEMS 


TWO  WORLDS 

AND   OTHER   POEMS 

PART    I 
TWO  WORLDS 

I  —  THE  VENUS   OF   MILO 

GRACE,  majesty,  and  the  calm  bliss  of  life; 

No  conscious  war  'twixt  human  will  and  duty; 
Here  breathes,  forever  free  from  pain  and  strife, 

The  old,  untroubled  pagan  world  of  beauty. 

II  — MICHAEL  ANGELO'S  SLAVE 

OF  life,  of  death  the  mystery  and  woe, 
Witness  in  this  mute,  carven  stone  the  whole. 

That  suffering  smile  were  never  fashioned  so 
Before  the  world  had  wakened  to  a  soul. 

PART   II 

THE  STAR  IN  THE  CITY 

As  down  the  city  street 

I  pass  at  the  twilight  hour, 

'Mid  the  noise  of  wheels  and  hoofs 

That  grind  on  the  stones,  and  beat ;  — 

Upward,  by  spire  and  tower, 

Over  the  chimneys  and  roofs 

Climbs  my  glance  to  the  skies, 


146  TWO  WORLDS 

And  I  see,  with  a  glad  surprise, 
A  mist  with  a  core  of  light. 

Slowly,  as  grows  the  night,  — 
As  the  sky  turns  blue  from  gray,  — 
Slowly  it  beams  more  bright, 
And  keeps  with  me  on  my  way. 

Soul  of  the  twilight  star 
That  leads  me  from  afar, 
Spirit  that  keener  glows 
As  the  daylight  darker  grows; 
That  leaps  the  chasm  of  blue 
Where  the  cross-street  thunders  through, 
And  follows  o'er  roof  and  spire, 
In  the  night-time  soaring  higher; 
I  know  thee,  and  only  I, 
Thou  comrade  of  the  sky  — 
Star  of  the  poet's  heart, 
The  light  and  soul  of  his  art. 

MOONLIGHT 


T  is  twelve  o'  the  clock. 

The  town  is  still; 
As  gray  as  a  rock 

From  gable  to  sill 
Each  cottage  is  standing. 

The  narrow  street 

(Where  the  tree-tops  meet), 
From  the  woods  to  the  landing, 
Is  black  with  shadows; 

The  roofs  are  white, 
And  white  are  the  meadows; 

The  harbor  is  bright. 

Can  this  be  night? 


I   CARE   NOT   IF   THE   SKIES   ARE   WHITE      147 


'T  is  twelve  o'  the  clock. 

The  town  is  still; 
As  still  as  a  stock 

From  harbor  to  hill. 
The  moon's  broad  marge 

Has  no  stars  near, 

Far  off  how  clear 
They  shine,  how  large ! 
Something  is  strange 

In  the  air,  in  the  light; 
Come  forth!   Let  us  range 

In -the  black,  in  the  white, 

Through  the  day-like  night. 

m 

In  the  elm-trees  all 

No  flutter,  no  twitter; 
From  the  granite  wall 

The  small  stars  glitter. 
A  filmy  thread 

My  forehead  brushes; 

A  meteor  rushes 
From  green  to  red. 
Naught  is  but  the  bliss 

Of  this  dark,  of  this  white, 
Of  these  stars  —  of  this  kiss, 

O  my  Love  and  my  Light 

In  the  day  and  the  night. 

"I   CARE   NOT   IF   THE   SKIES   ARE   WHITE" 

I  CARE  not  if  the  skies  are  white, 
Nor  if  the  fields  are  gold; 


148  TWO  WORLDS 

I  care  not  whether  't  is  black  or  bright, 
Or  winds  blow  soft  or  cold; 

But  O  the  dark,  dark  woods, 
For  thee,  and  me  —  and  love. 

Let  all  but  us  at  last  depart, 

The  great  world  say  farewell! 
This  is  the  kingdom  of  the  heart, 
Where  only  two  may  dwell; 

And  O  the  dark,  dark  woods, 
For  thee,  and  me  —  and  love. 

CONTRASTS 

THUNDER  in  the  north  sky, 
Sunshine  in  the  south; 

Frowning  eyes  and  forehead 
And  a  smiling  mouth. 

Maiden  in  the  morning  — 
Love  her?  Yes,  but  fear  her! 

In  the  moony  shadows  — 
Nearer,  nearer,  nearer! 

SERENADE 
(FOR  MUSIC) 

DEEP  in  the  ocean  of  night 

A  pearl  through  the  darkness  shines; 
Asleep  in  the  garden  of  night 

A  lily's  head  reclines; 
Afar  in  the  forest  of  night 

Dreams  the  nightingale; 
Clouds  in  the  sky  of  night 

Make  one  bright  star  grow  pale. 


INDOORS,    AT   NIGHT  149 

O  thou,  sweet  soul  of  my  love, 

Art  my  pearl,  my  lily-flower; 
Thou,  hiding  heart  of  my  love, 

Art  my  bird,  in  thy  maiden  bower; 
Heart  of  my  only  love 

That  shin'st  in  the  heavens  afar  — 
Thou,  in  the  night  of  love, 

Art  my  one,  dear,  trembling  star. 

Let  me  draw  thee  to  the  light, 

Pearl  of  the  shadowy  sea ! 
Awake,  thou  lily  of  light, 

Turn  thy  face  divine  on  me! 
Arouse  thee,  bird  of  the  night, 

Let  thy  voice  to  my  voice  reply! 
Star  of  thy  lover's  night, 

Shine  forth  or  I  die  —  I  die ! 

LARGESS 

SWEET  mouth,  dark  eyes,  deep  heart  — 
All  of  beauty,  all  of  glamor  heaven  could  fashion 

With  its  divinest  art; 

A  woman's  life  and  love,  a  woman's  passion: 

But  these,  at  last,  to  win, 

Land,  or  sea,  or  hell,  or  heaven  might  well  be  ravished 
At  price  of  any  sin  — 

Yet  freely  all  she  on  her  lover  lavished. 

INDOORS,   AT  NIGHT 

THE  window's  white,  the  candle's  red, 
Show  evening  falleth  overhead; 
The  candle's  red,  the  window's  black, 
And  earth  is  close  in  midnight's  sack; 


150  TWO  WORLDS 

The  candle  fades, 

The  midnight  shades 

Turn  suddenly  a  starry  blue  — 

And  now  to  dreams,  my  soul,  of  you ! 

THE  ABSENT  LOVER 

THE  purple  of  the  summer  fields,  the  dark 

Of  forests,  and  the  upward  mountain  sweep  — 

Broken  by  crag,  and  scar  of  avalanche; 

The  trembling  of  the  tops  of  million  trees; 

A  world  of  sunlight  thrilled  with  winds  of  dawn; 

All  these  I  feel,  I  breathe,  all  these  I  am 

When  with  closed  eyes  I  bring  thy  presence  near, 

And  touch  thy  spirit  with  my  spirit's  love. 

"TO-NIGHT   THE   MUSIC   DOTH  A   BURDEN 
BEAR" 

TO-NIGHT  the  music  doth  a  burden  bear  — 
One  word  that  moans  and  murmurs;  doth  exhale 
Tremulously  as  perfume  on  the  air 
From  out  a  rose  blood-red,  or  lily  pale. 
The  burden  is  thy  name,  dear  soul  of  me, 
Which  the  rapt  melodist  unknowing  all 
Still  doth  repeat  through  fugue  and  reverie; 
Thy  name,  to  him  unknown,  to  me  doth  call, 
And  weeps  my  heart  at  every  music-fall. 

SANCTUM  SANCTORUM 

i 

I  THOUGHT  I  knew  the  mountain's  every  mood, 
Gray,  black  with  storms,  or  lit  by  lightening  dawn; 
But  once  in  evening  twilight  came  a  spell 


THE   GIFT  151 

Upon  its  brow,  that  held  me  with  new  power; 
A  look  of  unknown  beauty,  a  deep  mood 
Touched  with  a  sorrow  as  of  human  kind. 

n 

I  thought  I  knew  full  well  my  comrade's  face, 
But  a  new  face  it  was  to  me  this  day. 
She  sat  among  the  worshipers  and  heard 
The  preacher's  voice,  yet  listened  not,  but  leaned 
Her  head  unto  a  tone  whose  accents  fell 
On  her  sweet  spirit  only.   Deep  the  awe 
Struck  then  upon  me,  for  my  friend  no  more 
Seemed  to  be  near,  as  with  forgetting  gaze, 
And  piteous  features  steeped  in  tenderness, 
She  thought  on  things  unspeakable  —  unknown 
To  all  the  world  beside. 

m 

When  forth  doth  pass, 
In  holy  pilgrimage  and  awful  quest, 
The  soul  of  thy  soul's  comrade,  thou  must  stand 
In  silence  by,  and  let  it  move  alone 
And  unattended  far  to  the  inner  shrine; 
Thou  canst  but  wait,  and  bow  thine  head,  and  pray; 
And  well  for  thee  if  thou  may'st  prove  so  pure, — 
Ended  that  hour,  —  thy  comrade  thou  regain'st, 
Thine  as  before,  or  even  more  deeply  thine. 

THE   GIFT 


LIFE  came  to  me  and  spoke : 
"A  palace  for  thee  I  have  built 
Wherein  to  take  thy  pleasure; 
I  have  filled  it  with  priceless  treasure; 


I52  TWO  WORLDS 

Seven  days  shalt  thou  dwell  therein; 
Thy  joy  shall  be  keener  than  sin, 
Without  the  stain  of  guilt  — 
Enter  the  door  of  oak!" 

n 

I  entered  the  oaken  door; 

Within,  no  ray  of  light, 

I  saw  no  golden  store, 

My  heart  stood  still  with  fright; 

To  curse  Life  was  I  fain; 

Then  one  unseen  before 

Laid  in  my  own  her  hand, 

And  said:  "Come  thou  and  know 

This  is  the  House  of  Woe; 

I  am  Life's  sister,  Pain." 

in 

Through  many  a  breathless  way; 
In  dark,  on  dizzying  hight, 
She  led  me  through  the  day 
And  into  the  dreadful  night. 
My  soul  was  sore  distrest 
And  wildly  I  longed  for  rest; 
Till  a  chamber  met  my  sight, 
Far  off,  and  hid,  and  still, 
With  diamonds  all  bedight 
And  every  precious  thing; 
Not  even  a  god  might  will 
More  beauty  there  to  bring. 

rv 

Then  spoke  Life's  sister,  Pain : 
"  Here  thou  as  a  king  shalt  reign, 
Here  shalt  thou  take  thy  pleasure, 
This  is  the  priceless  treasure, 


YESTERDAY,   WHEN   WE   WERE    FRIENDS       153 

The  chamber  of  thy  delight 
Through  endless  day  and  night ; 
Rejoice,  this  is  the  end  — 
Thou  hast  found  the  heart  of  a  friend." 

"AH,  TIME,   GO  NOT  SO   SOON" 

AH,  Time,  go  not  so  soon; 

I  would  not  thus  be  used,  I  would  forego  that  boon; 

Turn  back,  swift  Time,  and  let 

Me  many  a  year  forget; 

Let  her  be  strange  once  more  —  an  unfamiliar  tune, 

An  unimagined  flower, 

Not  known  till  that  mute,  wondrous  hour 

When  first  we  met! 

"THE  YEARS  ARE  ANGELS" 

THE  years  are  angels  that  bring  down  from  Heaven 
Gifts  of  the  gods.   What  has  the  angel  given 
Who  last  night  vanished  up  the  heavenly  wall? 
He  gave  a  friend  —  the  gods*  best  gift  of  all. 

"IN  HER  YOUNG  EYES" 

IN  her  young  eyes  the  children  looked  and  found 
Their  happy  comrade.   Summer  souls  false-bound 
In  age's  frosty  winter, —  without  ruth, — 
Lived  once  again  in  her  their  long-lost  youth. 

"YESTERDAY,    WHEN    WE    WERE    FRIENDS" 

i 

YESTERDAY,  when  we  were  friends, 
We  were  scarcely  friends  at  all; 
Now  we  have  been  friends  so  long, 
Now  our  love  has  grown  so  strong. 


154  TWO  WORLDS 

n 

When  to-morrow's  eve  shall  fall 
We  shall  say,  as  night  descends, 
Again  shall  say:  Ah,  yesterday 
Scarcely  were  we  friends  at  all  — 
Now  we  have  been  friends  so  long;- 
Our  love  has  grown  so  deep,  so  strong. 

A  NIGHT  SONG 
(FOR  THE  GUITAR) 

THE  leaves  are  dark  and  large,  Love, 
'T  is  blue  at  every  marge,  Love ; 

The  stars  hang  in  the  tree,  Love, 
I'll  pluck  them  all  for  thee,  Love; 

The  crescent  moon  is  curled,  Love, 
Down  at  the  edge  of  the  world,  Love; 

I'll  run  and  bring  it  now,  Love, 
To  crown  thy  gentle  brow,  Love; 

For  in  my  song. 

The  summer  long, 

The  stars,  and  moon,  and  night,  Love, 
Are  but  for  thy  delight,  Love! 

LEO 

I 

OVER  the  roofs  of  the  houses  I  hear  the  barking  of  Leo  — 
Leo  the  shaggy,  the  lustrous,  the  giant,  the  gentle  New 
foundland. 

Dark  are  his  eyes  as  the  night,  and  black  is  his  hair  as  the 
midnight ; 


BROTHERS  155 

Large  and  slow  is  his  tread  till  he  sees  his  master  returning, 
Then  how  he  leaps  in  the  air,  with  motion  ponderous, 

frightening! 
Now,  as  I  pass  to  my  work,  I  hear  o'er  the  roar  of  the 

city  — 

Far  over  the  roofs  of  the  houses,  I  hear  the  barking  of  Leo ; 
For  me  he  is  moaning  and  crying,  for  me  in  measure 

sonorous 
He  raises  his  marvelous  voice,  for  me  he  is  wailing  and 

calling. 

n 

None  can  assuage  his  grief,  tho'  but  for  a  day  is  the 

parting, 
Tho'  morn  after  morn  't  is  the  same,  tho'  home  every 

night  comes  his  master, 
Still  will  he  grieve  when  we  sever,  and  wild  will  be  his 

rejoicing 
When  at  night  his  master  returns  and  lays  but  a  hand  on 

his  forehead. 
No  lack  will  there  be  in  the  world  of  faith,  of  love,  and 

devotion, 

No  lack  for  me  and  for  mine,  while  Leo  alone  is  living  — 
While  over  the  roofs  of  the  houses  I  hear  the  barking  of 

Leo. 


PART  III 

BROTHERS 

PASSION  is  a  wayward  child, 

Art  his  brother  firm  and  mild. 

Lonely  each 

Doth  fail  to  reach 

Hight  of  music,  song,  or  speech. 


156  TWO   WORLDS 

If  hand  in  hand  they  sally  forth, 

East  or  west,  or  south  or  north, 

Naught  can  stay  them 

Nor  delay  them. 

Slaves  not  they  of  space  or  time 

In  their  journeyings  sublime. 

LOVE,   ART,   AND   TIME 

ON   A   PICTURE   ENTITLED    "  THE   PORTRAIT," 
BY   WILL   H.    LOW 

SWEET  Grecian  girl  who  on  the  sunbright  wall 
Tracest  the  outline  of  thy  lover's  shade, 
While,  on  the  dial  near,  Time's  hand  is  laid 
With  silent  motion  —  fearest  thou,  then,  all? 

How  that  one  day  the  light  shall  cease  to  fall 
On  him  who  is  thy  light;  how  lost,  dismayed,  — 
By  Time,    and   Time's    pale    comrade   Death,    be 
trayed,  — 

Thou    shalt   breathe  on    beneath   the   all-shadowing 
pall! 

Love,  Art,  and  Time,  these  are  the  triple  powers 
That  rule  the  world,  and  shall  for  many  a  morrow  — 
Love  that  beseecheth  Art  to  conquer  Time! 

Bright  is  the  picture,  but,  O  fading  flowers  I 

O  youth  that  passes !  love  that  bringeth  sorrow !  — 
Bright  is  the  picture;  sad  the  poet's  rhyme. 

THE  DANCERS 

ON   A   PICTURE   ENTITLED   "SUMMER,"   BY  T.  W.    DEWING 

BEHOLD  these  maidens  in  a  row 
Against  the  birches'  freshening  green; 
Their  lines  like  music  sway  and  flow; 
Thev  move  before  the  emerald  screen 


EMMA   LAZARUS  157 

Like  broidered  figures  dimly  seen 
On  woven  cloths,  in  moony  glow  — 
Gracious,  and  graceful,  and  serene. 
They  hear  the  harp;  its  lovely  tones 
Each  maiden  in  each  motion  owns, 
As  if  she  were  a  living  note 
Which  from  that  curved  harp  doth  float. 

THE  TWENTY-THIRD  OF  APRIL 

A  LITTLE  English  earth  and  breathed  air 

Made  Shakespeare,  the  divine;  so  is  his  verse 

The  broidered  soil  of  every  blossom  fair; 

So  doth  his  song  all  sweet  bird- songs  rehearse. 

But  tell  me,  then,  what  wondrous  stuff  did  fashion 
That  part  of  him  which  took  those  wilding  flights 
Among  imagined  worlds;  whence  the  white  passion 
That  burned  three  centuries  through  the  days  and 
nights! 

Not  heaven's  four  winds  could  make,  nor  the  round  earth, 
The  soul  wherefrom  the  soul  of  Hamlet  flamed; 
Nor  anything  of  merely  mortal  birth 

Could  lighten  as  when  Shakespeare's  name  is  named. 
How  was  his  body  bred  we  know  full  well, 
But  that  high  soul's  engendering  who  may  tell! 

EMMA  LAZARUS 

WHEN  on  thy  bed  of  pain  thou  layest  low, 
Daily  we  saw  thy  body  fade  away, 
Nor  could  the  love  wherewith  we  loved  thee  stay 
For  one  dear  hour  the  flesh  borne  down  by  woe; 

But  as  the  mortal  sank,  with  what  white  glow 
Flamed  thy  eternal  spirit,  night  and  day; 


158  TWO   WORLDS 

Untouched,  unwasted,  tho'  the  crumbling  clay 
Lay  wreckt  and  ruined !   Ah,  is  it  not  so, 

Dear  poet-comrade,  who  from  sight  hast  gone; 
Is  it  not  so  that  spirit  hath  a  life 
Death  may  not  conquer?   But,  O  dauntless  onel 

Still  must  we  sorrow.   Heavy  is  the  strife 
And  thou  not  with  us;  thou  of  the  old  race 
That  with  Jehovah  parleyed,  face  to  face. 

THE  TWELFTH   OF  DECEMBER 

ON  this  day  Browning  died? 
Say,  rather:  On  the  tide 

That  throbs  against  those  glorious  palace  walls; 
That  rises  —  pauses  —  falls 

With  melody  and  myriad-tinted  gleams; 

On  that  enchanted  tide, 

Half  real,  and  half  poured  from  lovely  dreams, 
A  soul  of  Beauty,  —  a  white,  rhythmic  flame,  — 
Past  singing  forth  into  the  Eternal  Beauty  whence  it  came. 


PART   IV 

SHERIDAN 
i 

QUIETLY,  like  a  child 

That  sinks  in  slumber  mild, 

No  pain  or  troubled  thought  his  well-earned  peace  to  mar, 
Sank  into  endless  rest  our  thunderbolt  of  war. 

ii 

Tho'  his  the  power  to  smite 

Quick  as  the  lightning's  light,  — 
His  single  arm  an  army,  his  very  name  a  host, — 
Not  his  the  love  of  blood,  the  warrior's  cruel  boast. 


SHERIDAN  159 

III 

But  in  the  battle's  flame 

How  glorious  he  came !  — 
Even  like  a  white-combed  wave  that  breaks  and  tears  the 

shore, 
While  wreck  lies  strewn  behind,  and  terror  flies  before. 

IV 

'T  was  he,  —  his  voice,  his  might,  — 

Could  stay  the  panic-flight, 

Alone  shame  back  the  headlong,  many  leagued  retreat, 
And  turn  to  evening  triumph  morning's  foul  defeat. 

v 

He  was  our  modern  Mars; 

Yet  firm  his  faith  that  wars 

Ere  long  would  cease  to  vex  the  sad,  ensanguined  earth, 
And  peace  forever  reign,  as  at  Christ's  holy  birth. 

VI 

Blest  land,  in  whose  dark  hour 

Arise  to  loftiest  power 

No  dazzlers  of  the  sword  to  play  the  tyrant's  part, 
But  patriot-soldiers,  true  and  pure  and  high  of  heart ! 

VII 

Of  such  our  chief  of  all; 

And  he  who  broke  the  wall 

Of  civil  strife  in  twain,  no  more  to  build  or  mend; 
And  he  who  hath  this  day  made  Death  his  faithful  friend. 

VIII 

And  now  above  his  tomb 

From  out  the  eternal  gloom 

"Welcome!"  his  chieftain's  voice  sounds  o'er  the  can 
non's  knell; 
And  of  the  three  one  only  stays  to  say  "Farewell!" 


160  TWO  WORLDS 

SHERMAN 

I 

GLORY  and  honor  and  fame  and  everlasting  laudation 
For  our  captains  who  loved  not  war,  but  fought  for  the  life 

of  the  nation; 
Who  knew  that,  in  all  the  land,  one  slave  meant  strife, 

not  peace; 
Who  fought  for  freedom,  not  glory;  made  war  that  war 

might  cease. 

ii 

Glory  and  honor  and  fame;  the  beating  of  muffled  drums; 
The   wailing   funeral   dirge,  as    the     flag-wrapt    coffin 

comes. 

Fame  and  honor  and  glory,  and  joy  for  a  noble  soul; 
For  a  full  and  splendid  life,  and  laureled  rest  at  the  goal. 

in 

Glory  and  honor  and  fame;  the  pomp  that  a  soldier 

prizes ; 
The  league-long  waving  line  as  the  marching  falls  and 

rises ; 

Rumbling  of  caissons  and  guns;  the  clatter  of  horses'  feet, 
And  a  million  awe-struck  faces  far  down  the  waiting 

street. 

IV 

But  better  than  martial  woe,  and  the  pageant  of  civic  sor 
row; 

Better  than  praise  of  to-day,  or  the  statue  we  build 
to-morrow ; 

Better  than  honor  and  glory,  and  History's  iron  pen, 

Was  the  thought  of  duty  done  and  the  love  of  his  fellow- 
men. 


PRO   PATRIA  l6l 

PRO    PATRIA 


EREWHILE  I  sang  the  praise  of  them  whose  lustrous  names 

Flashed  in  war's  dreadful  flames; 
Who  rose  in  glory,  and  in  splendor,  and  in  might 

To  fame's  sequestered  hight. 

ii 

Honor  to  all,  for  each  his  honors  meekly  carried, 

Nor  e'er  the  conquered  harried; 
All  honor,  for  they  sought  alone  to  serve  the  state  — 

Not  merely  to  be  great. 

m 

Yes,  while  the  glorious  past  our  grateful  memory  craves, 

And  while  yon  bright  flag  waves, 
Lincoln,  Grant,  Sherman,  Sheridan,  the  peerless  four, 

Shall  live  for  evermore ; 

IV 

Shall  shine  the  eternal  stars  of  stern  and  loyal  love, 

All  other  stars  above; 
The  imperial  nation  they  made  one,  at  last,  and  free, 

Their  monument  shall  be. 

v 
Ah,  yes!  but  ne'er  may  we  forget  the  praise  to  sound 

Of  the  brave  souls  that  found 
Death  in  the  myriad  ranks,  'mid  blood,  and  groans,  and 

stenches  — 
Tombs  in  the  abhorred  trenches. 

l  Chaplain  William  Henry  Gilder,  of  the  4oth  New  York  Volunteers, 
died  at  Brandy  Station,  Virginia,  in  April,  1864,  of  smallpox  caught  while 
in  attendance  upon  the  regimental  hospital. 


162  TWO  WORLDS 

VI 

Comrades !  To-day  a  tear-wet  garland  I  would  bring  — 

But  one  song  let  me  sing, 
For  one  sole  hero  of  my  heart  and  desolate  home; 

Come  with  me,  Comrades,  come! 

vn 

Bring  your  glad  flowers,  your  flags,  for  this  one  humble 
grave; 

For,  Soldiers,  he  was  brave ! 
Tho'  fell  not  he  before  the  cannon's  thunderous  breath, 

Yet  noble  was  his  death. 

vm 

True  soldier  of  his  country  and  the  sacred  cross  — 

He  counted  gain,  not  loss, 
Perils  and  nameless  horrors  of  the  embattled  field, 

While  he  had  help  to  yield. 

IX 

But  not  where  'mid  wild  cheers  the  awful  battle  broke,  — 

A  hell  of  fire  and  smoke,  — 
He  to  heroic  death  went  forth  with  soul  elate; 

Harder  his  lonely  fate. 

x 

There  in  the  pest-house  died  he;   stricken  he  fearless 

fell, 

Knowing  that  all  was  well; 
The    high,    mysterious    Power   whereof    mankind    has 

dreamed 
To  him  not  distant  seemed. 

XI 

Yet  life  to  him  was  O,  most   dear,  —  home,  children, 

wife,  — 
But,  dearer  still  than  life, 


FAILURE   AND    SUCCESS  163 

Duty  —  that  passion  of  the  soul  which  from  the  sod 
Alone  lifts  man  to  God. 

XII 

So  nobly  past  this  unknown  hero  of  the  war; 

And  heroes,  near  and  far, 
Sleep  now  in  graves  like  his  unfamed  in  song  or  story  — 

But  theirs  is  more  than  glory ! 

TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

(REUNION  AT  GETTYSBURG  TWENTY-FIVE  YEARS  AFTER 
THE  BATTLE) 

SHADE  of  our  greatest,  O  look  down  to-day ! 
Here  the  long,  dread  midsummer  battle  roared, 
And  brother  in  brother  plunged  the  accursed  sword ;  — 
Here  foe  meets  foe  once  more  in  proud  array, 

Yet  not  as  once  to  harry  and  to  slay, 
But  to  strike  hands,  and  with  sublime  accord 
Weep  tears  heroic  for  the  souls  that  soared 
Quick  from  earth's  carnage  to  the  starry  way. 

Each  fought  for  what  he  deemed  the  people's  good, 
And  proved  his  bravery  by  his  offered  life, 
And  sealed  his  honor  with  his  outpoured  blood; 

But  the  Eternal  did  direct  the  strife, 
And  on  this  sacred  field  one  patriot  host 
Now  calls  thee  father  —  dear,  majestic  ghost ! 

FAILURE  AND   SUCCESS 
(G.  c.,  1888) 

HE  fails  who  climbs  to  power  and  place 
Up  the  pathway  of  disgrace. 
He  fails  not  who  makes  truth  his  cause, 
Nor  bends  to  win  the  crowd's  applause. 


1 64  TWO   WORLDS 

He  fails  not,  he  who  stakes  his  all 
Upon  the  right,  and  dares  to  fall;  — 
What  tho'  the  living  bless  or  blame, 
For  him  the  long  success  of  fame. 

J.   R.   L. 

ON  HIS   BIRTHDAY 

NAVIES  nor  armies  can  exalt  the  state; 

Millions  of  men,  nor  coined  wealth  untold; 

Down  to  the  pit  may  sink  a  land  of  gold ; 
But  one  great  name  can  make  a  country  great. 

NAPOLEON 

A  SOUL  inhuman?  No,  but  human  all, 
If  human  is  each  passion  man  has  known: 
Scorn,  hate,  and  love;  the  lust  of  empire,  grown 
To  such  a  hight  as  did  the  world  appall ;  — 

If  the  same  human  soul  may  soar  and  crawl 
As  soared  his  and  as  crawled;  if  to  be  shown 
The  utmost  heaven  and  hell;  if  to  atone 
For  power  consummate  by  colossal  fall ;  — 

If  human  't  is  to  see  friend,  partizan, 

Turn,  dastardly,  the  imperial  hand  to  tear 
That  fed  them;  if  through  gnawing  years  to  plan 

Vengeance,  and  space  to  breathe  the  unfettered  air  - 
No  alien  from  his  kind  but  very  man 
Slow  perished  on  that  island  of  despair. 

THE  WHITE  CZAR'S  PEOPLE 

PART   I 

THE  White  Czar's  people  cry: 

"  Thou  God  of  the  heat  and  the  cold, 
Of  storm  and  of  lightning, 


THE   WHITE   CZAR'S    PEOPLE  165 

Of  darkness,  and  dawn's  red  brightening; 

Hold,  Lord  God,  hold, 
Hold  Thy  hand  lest  we  curse  Thee  and  die." 

The  White  Czar's  people  pray: 

uThou  God  of  the  South  and  the  North, 

We  are  crusht,  we  are  bleeding; 

'T  is  Christ,  't  is  Thy  Son  interceding; 
Forth,  Lord,  come  forth ! 

Bid  the  slayer  no  longer  slay." 

The  White  Czar's  people  call 

Aloud  to  the  skies  of  lead: 
"  We  are  slaves,  not  freemen ; 
Ourselves,  our  children,  our  women  — 

Dead,  we  are  dead, 
Tho'  we  breathe,  we  are  dead  men  all. 

"  Blame  not  if  we  misprize  Thee 

Who  can,  but  will  not  draw  near. 
'T  is  Thou  who  hast  made  us  — 
Not  Thou,  dread  God,  to  upbraid  us. 

Hear,  Lord  God,  hear! 
Lest  we  whom  Thou  madest  despise  Thee." 

PART   II 

Then  answered  the  Most  High  God, 

Lord  of  the  heat  and  the  cold, 
Of  storm  and  of  lightning, 
Of  darkness,  and  dawn's  red  brightening: 

"Bold,  yea,  too  bold, 
Whom  I  wrought  from  the  air  and  the  clod! 

"Hast  thou  forgotten  from  me 
Are  those  ears  so  quick  to  hear 


1 66  TWO  WORLDS 

The  passion  and  anguish 

Of  your  sisters,  your  children  who  languish 

Near?  Ah,  not  near  — 
Far  off  by  the  uttermost  sea! 

"  Who  gave  ye  your  brains  to  plan  — 
Your  hearts  to  suffer  and  bleed? 
Why  call  ye  on  heaven  — 
7T  is  the  earth  that  to  you  is  given ! 

Plead,  ye  may  plead, 
But  for  man  I  work  through  man. 

"Who  gave  ye  a  voice  to  utter 

Your  tale  to  the  wind  and  the  sea? 
One  word  well  spoken 
And  the  iron  gates  are  broken! 

From  me,  yea,  from  me 
The  word  that  ye  will  not  mutter. 

"I  love  not  murder  but  ruth. 

Begone  from  my  sight  ye  who  take 
The  knife  of  the  coward  — 
Even  ye  who  by  heaven  were  dowered! 

Wake  ye,  O  wake, 
And  strike  with  the  sword  of  Truth ! 

"  Fear  ye  lest  I  misprize  ye  — 

I  who  fashioned  not  brutes,  but  men. 

After  the  lightning 

And  darkness  —  the  dawn's  red  brightening! 
Men !   Be  ye  men ! 

Lest  I  who  made  ye  despise  ye ! " 


CHARLESTON  167 

PART  HI 
(January  22,  1905) 

The  great  word  is  uttered,  at  last! 

White  Czar!  O,  where  hast  thou  fled? 
Thy  children,  heart-broken, 
To  thee  their  sorrows  have  spoken! 

To  thee  it  is  said  — 
That  WORD  on  the  wings  of  the  blast! 

For  the  word  is  their  fearful  cry, 
And  the  word  is  their  innocent  blood. 

O,  red  is  the  chalice 

Lifted  up  to  thy  empty  palace! 
Blood,  crimson  blood, 

On  the  snows  where  the  murdered  lie! 

Their  shed  blood  is  the  word!  It  is  winning 
Its  way  swift  from  zone  unto  zone; 

Through  the  world  it  has  thrilled 

And  the  heart  of  the  nations  stilled. 
Alone,  thou  alone! 

Art  thou  deaf  to  the  voice  and  the  meaning? 

Lo,  it  swells  like  the  sound  of  the  sea. 

Dull  monarch!  yet,  yet,  shalt  thou  hear  it. 
For,  once  'neath  the  sun 
By  the  brave  it  is  spoken  —  all 's  done ! 

Hear  it  —  and  fear  it; 
For  "Freedom"  it  cries,  "We  are  free!" 

CHARLESTON 

1886 

Is  this  the  price  of  beauty!   Fairest,  thou, 
Of  all  the  cities  of  the  sunrise  sea, 


1 68  TWO  WORLDS 

Yet  thrice  art  stricken.   First,  war  harried  thee; 

Then  the  dread  circling  tempest  drove  its  plow 
Right  through  thy  palaces;  and  now,  O  now! 

A  sound  of  terror,  and  thy  children  flee 

Into  the  night  and  death.   O  Deity! 

Thou  God  of  war  and  whirlwind,  whose  dark  brow, 
Frowning,  makes  tremble  sea  and  solid  land! 

These  are  Thy  creatures  who  to  heaven  cry 

While  hell  roars  'neath  them,  and  its  portals  ope; 
To  Thee  they  call,  —  O  Thou  who  bidst  them  die, 

Who  hast  forgotten  to  withhold  Thy  hand, — 

For  thou,  Destroyer,  art  man's  only  Hope ! 

PART   V 

HIDE  NOT  THY  HEART 

i 

THIS  is  my  creed, 
This  be  my  deed: 
"Hide  not  thy  heart!" 
Soon  we  depart; 
Mortals  are  all; 
A  breath,  then  the  pall; 
A  flash  on  the  dark  — 
All's  done  —  stiff  and  staik. 
No  time  for  a  lie; 
The  truth,  and  then  die. 
Hide  not  thy  heart ! 


Forth  with  thy  thought ! 
Soon  't  will  be  naught, 
And  thou  in  thy  tomb. 
Now  is  air,  now  is  room. 


THE   POET   FROM  HIS    OWN   SORROW      169 

Down  with  false  shame; 
Reck  not  of  fame; 
Dread  not  man's  spite; 
Quench  not  thy  light. 
This  be  thy  creed, 
This  be  thy  deed: 
"Hide  not  thy  heart!" 

in 

If  God  is,  He  made 
Sunshine  and  shade, 
Heaven  and  hell; 
This  we  know  well. 
Dost  thou  believe? 
Do  not  deceive; 
Scorn  not  thy  faith  — 
If  't  is  a  wraith, 
Soon  it  will  fly. 
Thou,  who  must  die, 
Hide  not  thy  heart! 

IV 

This  is  my  creed; 
This  be  my  deed: 
Faith,  or  a  doubt, 
I  shall  speak  out 
And  hide  not  my  heart. 

"THE  POET  FROM  HIS  OWN  SORROW" 

THE  poet  from  his  own  sorrow 
Poured  forth  a  love-sad  song. 

A  stranger,  on  the  morrow, 

Drew  near,  with  a  look  of  wrong, 


I  JO  TWO   WORLDS 

And  said :  "  Beneath  its  pall 

I  have  hidden  my  heart  in  vain  — 

To  the  world  thou  hast  sung  it  all! 
Who  told  thee  my  secret  pain?" 

"WHITE,   PILLARED   NECK" 

WHITE,  pillared  neck;  a  brow  to  make  men  quake; 

A  woman's  perfect  form; 
Like  some  cool  marble,  should  that  wake, 

Breathe,  and  be  warm. 

A  shape,  a  mind,  a  heart, 

Of  womanhood  the  whole : 
Her  breath,  her  smile,  her  touch,  her  art, 

All  —  save  her  soul. 


"GREAT  NATURE  IS  AN  ARMY  GAY" 

GREAT  nature  is  an  army  gay, 
Resistless  marching  on  its  way; 
I  hear  the  bugles  clear  and  sweet, 
I  hear  the  tread  of  million  feet. 

Across  the  plain  I  see  it  pour; 
It  tramples  down  the  waving  grass; 
Within  the  echoing  mountain-pass 
I  hear  a  thousand  cannon  roar. 

It  swarms  within  my  garden  gate; 
My  deepest  well  it  drinketh  dry. 
It  doth  not  rest;  it  doth  not  wait; 
By  night  and  day  it  sweepeth  by; 
Ceaseless  it  marcheth  by  my  door; 
It  heeds  me  not,  tho'  I  implore. 
I  know  not  whence  it  comes,  nor  where 
It  goes.   For  me  it  doth  not  care  — 


LIFE    IS    THE   COST  171 

Whether  I  starve,  or  eat,  or  sleep, 

Or  live,  or  die,  or  sing,  or  weep. 

And  now  the  banners  all  are  bright, 

Now  torn  and  blackened  by  the  fight. 

Sometimes  its  laughter  shakes  the  sky, 

Sometimes  the  groans  of  those  who  die. 

Still  through  the  night  and  through  the  livelong  day 

The  infinite  army  marches  on  its  remorseless  way. 

"LIFE  IS  THE  COST" 

i 

LIFE  is  the  cost. 
Behold  yon  tower, 
That  heavenward  lifts 
To  the  cloudy  drifts  — 
Like  a  flame,  like  a  flower! 
What  lightness,  what  grace, 
What  a  dream  of  power! 
One  last  endeavor 
One  stone  to  place  — 
And  it  stands  forever. 

ii 

A  slip,  a  fall ; 
A  cry,  a  call; 
Turn  away,  all's  done. 
Stands  the  tower  in  the  sun 
Forever  and  a  day. 
On  the  pavement  below 
The  crimson  stain 
Will  be  worn  away 
In  the  ebb  and  flow; 
The  tower  will  remain. 
Life  is  the  cost. 


172  TWO   WOKLiJb 

THE  PRISONER'S  THOUGHT 

i 

Is  't  I  for  whom  the  law's  brute  penalty 
Was  made;  to  whom  the  law  once  seemed  a  power 
Far  off  and  not  to  be  concerned  withal? 
Am  I  indeed  this  rank  and  noisome  thing 
Fit  for  such  handling;  to  be  pushed  aside 
Into  a  human,  foul  receptacle,  — 
A  fetid  compost  of  dull,  festering  crime  — 
Even  not  meet  for  nutriment  of  earth, 
But  only  here  to  rot  in  memories 
Of  my  own  shame,  and  shame  of  other  men  ? 

Here  let  me  rot,  then  —  there's  a  taste  one  has 
For  just  the  best  of  all  things,  even  of  sin. 
He's  a  poor  devil  who  in  deepest  hell 
Knows  no  keen  relish  for  the  worst  that  is, — 
The  very  acme  of  intensest  pain, — 
Nor  smacks  charred  lips  at  thoughts  of  some  dear  crime, 
The  sweetest,  deadliest,  damnablest  of  all. 
Sometimes  I  hug  that  hellish  happiness; 
And  then  a  loathing  falls  upon  my  soul 
For  what  I  was,  and  am,  and  still  must  be. 

II 

And  this  same  I  —  there  comes  to  me  a  time, 

And  often  comes,  when  all  this  slips  away; 

Stays  not  one  stain,  nor  scar,  nor  fatal  hurt. 

Perhaps  it  is  a  sort  of  waking  dream; 

But  if  I  dream,  I'm  breathing  audibly, 

I  feel  my  pulse  beat,  hear  the  talk  and  tread 

Down  these  long  corridors;  see  the  barred  blue 

Of  the  cell's  window,  hear  a  singing  bird  — 

Yes,  O  my  God,  I  hear  a  singing  bird, 

Such  as  I  heard  in  childhood.   Now,  you  think, 


THE    CONDEMNED  173 

I  dream  I  am  a  child  once  more.   Not  so; 

I  am  just  what  I  am :  a  man  in  prison  — 

(Damn  them!  I'm  innocent  of  what  they  swore 

And  proved  —  with  cant,  and  well-paid  perjury; 

Tho'  other  crimes,  they  know  not  of,  I  did)  — 

But  suddenly  my  soul  is  pure  as  yours; 

My  thought  as  clean;  my  spirit  is  as  free 

As  any  man's,  or  any  purest  woman's. 

I  think  as  justly,  as  for  instance,  sir, 

You  think;  as  circumspectly,  wisely,  freely, 

As  does  my  jolly  keeper,  or  the  smith 

Who  enters  once  a  day  to  try  the  bars 

That  shut  my  body  out  from  freedom!   Not 

My  soul.   Why,  this  my  soul  has  thoughts  that  strike 

Into  the  very  hights  and  depths  of  Heaven. 

You'll  think  it  passing  strange,  good  friend,  no  doubt. 

'T  is  strange;  but  here's  a  further  mystery: 

Think  you  that  in  some  other  living  state 

After  what  we  call  death,  —  or  in  this  life,  — 

The  thinking  part  of  us  we  name  the  soul 

Can  ever  get  away  from  its  old  self; 

Can  wash  the  earth  all  off  from  it,  that  so 

It  really  will  be,  what  I  sometimes  seem  — 

As  sinless  as  a  little  child  at  birth, 

With  all  a  woman's  love  for  all  things  pure, 

And  all  a  grown  man's  strength  to  do  the  right? 

THE   CONDEMNED 

THOU  art  not  fit  to  die  ?  —  Why  not  ? 
The  fairest  body  ripes  to  rot. 
Thy  soul?   O,  why  not  let  it  go 
Free  from  the  flesh  that  drags  it  low ! 
To  die!   Poor  wretch,  do  not  deceive 
Thyself  —  who  art  not  fit  to  live. 


174  TWO   WORLDS 

"SOW  THOU  SORROW" 

Sow  thou  sorrow  and  thou  shalt  reap  it; 
Sow  thou  joy  and  thou  shalt  keep  it. 

TEMPTATION 

NOT  alone  in  pain  and  gloom, 
Does  the  abhorred  tempter  come; 
Not  in  light  alone  and  pleasure 
Proffers  he  the  poisoned  measure. 

When  the  soul  doth  rise 
Nearest  to  its  native  skies, 
There  the  exalted  spirit  finds 
Borne  upon  the  heavenly  winds 
Satan,  in  an  angel's  guise, 
With  voice  divine  and  innocent  eyes. 

A  MIDSUMMER  MEDITATION 


FACE  once  the  thought :  This  piled  up  sky  of  cloud, 
Blue  vastness,  and  white  vastness  steept  in  light,  — 
Struck  through  with  light,  that  centers  in  the  sun,  — 
This  blue  of  waves  below  that  meets  blue  sky; 
But  a  white,  trembling  shore  between,  that  sweeps 
The  circle  of  the  bay;  this  green  of  woods, 
And  keener  green  of  new-mown,  grassy  fields; 
This  ceaseless,  leaf-like  rustle  of  the  waves; 
These  shining,  billowy  tree-tops;  songs  of  birds; 
Strong  scent  of  seaweed,  mixt  with  smell  of  pines; 
Face  once  this  thought :  Thy  spirit  that  looks  forth, 
That  breathes  the  light,  and  life,  and  joy  of  all, 
Shall  cease,  but  not  the  things  that  pleasure  thee; 


VISIONS  175 

They  shall  endure  for  eyes  like  thine,  but  not 
For  thine  own  eyes;  for  human  hearts  like  thine, 
But  not  for  thine  own  heart,  all  dust  and  dead. 


Face  it,  O  Spirit,  then  look  up  once  more, 
Brave  conqueror  of  dull  mortality ! 
Look  up  and  be  a  part  of  all  thou  seest. 
Ocean  and  earth  and  miracle  of  sky, 
All  that  thou  seest,  thou  art,  and  without  thee 
Were  nothing.   Thou,  a  god,  dost  recreate 
The  whole;  breathing  thy  soul  in  all,  till  all 
Is  one  wide  world  made  perfect  at  thy  touch. 
And  know  that  thou,  who  darest  a  world  create, 
Art  one  with  the  Almighty,  son  to  sire  — • 
Of  His  eternity  a  quenchless  spark. 

AS  DOTH  THE  BIRD" 

As  doth  the  bird,  on  outstretched  pinions,  dare 

The  dread  abysm's  viewless  air, 

Take  thou,  my  soul,  thy  fearless  flight 

Into  the  void  and  dark  of  death's  eternal  night. 

VISIONS 

i 

CAST  into  the  pit 
Of  lonely  sorrow, 
The  suffering  soul, 
Looking  aloft, 
Sees  with  amaze 
In  the  daytime  sky 
The  shine  of  stars. 


176  TWO   WORLDS 


Came  to  him  once 
In  the  seething  town 
A  form  of  beauty, 
Innocent  brow, 
And  soul  of  youth; 
Deep,  sweet  eyes, 
An  angel's  gaze, 
And  rose-leaf  lips 
That  murmured  low: 
"I,  lost,  forgotten, 
Long  left,  long  dead, 
I  am  thy  sin." 

in 

With  full-toned  beat 
Of  the  happy  heart, 
In  a  day  of  peace, 
In  an  hour  of  joy, 
Once  in  my  life 
And  only  once, 
Of  a  sudden,  I  saw, 
The  end  of  all! 
—  Death ! 


WITH  A  CROSS  OF  IMMORTELLES 

WHEN  Christ  cried:  "It  is  done!" 
The  face  of  a  small  red  flower, 
Looking  up  to  the  suffering  One, 

Turned  pale  with  love  and  pain, 
And  never  shone  red  again. 
In  memory  of  that  hour 


THE   PASSING   OF   CHRIST  177 

Which  holds  the  secret  of  bliss; 
And  the  darker  secret  of  sorrow 
That  shall  come  to  each,  to-morrow; 

Sweet  friend,  I  send  you  this. 


THE  PASSING  OF  CHRIST 


O  MAN  of  light  and  lore! 

Do  you  mean  that  in  our  day 

The  Christ  hath  past  away; 

That  nothing  now  is  divine 

In  the  fierce  rays  that  shine 

Through  every  cranny  and  thought; 

That  Christ  as  he  once  was  taught 

Shall  be  the  Christ  no  more? 

That  the  Hope  and  Savior  of  men 

Shall  be  seen  no  more  again; 

That,  miracles  being  done, 

Gone  is  the  Holy  One? 

And  thus,  you  hold,  this  Christ 

For  the  past  alone  sufficed; 

From  the  throne  of  the  hearts  of  the  world 

The  Son  of  God  shall  be  hurled, 

And  henceforth  must  be  sought 

New  prophets  and  kings  of  thought; 

That  the  tenderest,  truest  word 

The  heart  of  sorrow  hath  heard 

Shall  sound  no  more  upon  earth; 

That  he  who  hath  made  of  birth 

A  dread  and  sacred  rite; 

Who  hath  brought  to  the  eyes  of  death 

A  vision  of  heavenly  light, 

Shall  fade  with  our  failing  faith;  — 


178  TWO  WORLDS 

He  who  saw  in  children's  eyes 

Eternal  paradise; 

Who  made  the  poor  man's  lowly 

Labor  a  service  holy, 

And  sweat  of  work  more  sweet 

Than  incense  at  God's  feet; 

Who  turned  the  God  of  Fear 

To  a  father,  bending  near; 

Who  looked  through  shame  and  sin 

At  the  sanctity  within; 

Whose  memory,  since  he  died, 

The  earth  hath  sanctified  — 

Hath  been  the  stay  and  the  hold 

Of  millions  of  lives  untold, 

And  the  world  on  its  upward  path 

Hath  led  from  crime  and  wrath ;  — 

You  say  that  this  Christ  hath  past 

And  we  cannot  hold  him  fast? 

n 

Ah,  no!  If  the  Christ  you  mean 

Shall  pass  from  this  time,  this  scene, 

These  hearts,  these  lives  of  ours, 

'T  is  but  as  the  summer  flowers 

Pass,  but  return  again, 

To  gladden  a  world  of  men. 

For  he,  —  the  only,  the  true,  — 

In  each  age,  in  each  waiting  heart, 

Leaps  into  life  anew; 

Tho'  he  pass,  he  shall  not  depart. 

Behold  him  now  where  he  comes! 
Not  the  Christ  of  our  subtile  creeds, 
But  the  lord  of  our  hearts,  of  our  homes, 


THE   PASSING   OF   CHRIST  179 

Of  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  needs; 
The  brother  of  want  and  blame, 
The  lover  of  women  and  men, 
With  a  love  that  puts  to  shame 
All  passions  of  mortal  ken;  — 
Yet  of  all  of  woman  born 
His  is  the  scorn  of  scorn; 
Before  whose  face  do  fly 
Lies,  and  the  love  of  a  lie; 
Who  from  the  temple  of  God 
And  the  sacred  place  of  laws 
Drives  forth,  with  smiting  rod, 
The  herds  of  ravening  maws. 

'T  is  he,  as  none  other  can, 

Makes  free  the  spirit  of  man, 

And  speaks,  in  darkest  night, 

One  word  of  awful  light 

That  strikes  through  the  dreadful  pain 

Of  life,  a  reason  sane  — 

That  word  divine  which  brought 

The  universe  from  naught. 

Ah,  no,  thou  life  of  the  heart, 
Never  shalt  thou  depart ! 
Not  till  the  leaven  of  God 
Shall  lighten  each  human  clod; 
Not  till  the  world  shall  climb 
To  thy  hight  serene,  sublime, 
Shall  the  Christ  who  enters  our  door 
Pass  to  return  no  more. 


l8o  TWO   WORLDS 

CREDO 

How  easily  my  neighbor  chants  his  creed, 

Kneeling  beside  me  in  the  House  of  God. 

His  "I  believe"  he  chants,  and  "I  believe," 

With  cheerful  iteration  and  consent  — • 

Watching  meantime  the  white,  slow  sunbeam  move 

Across  the  aisle,  or  listening  to  the  bird 

Whose  free,  wild  song  sounds  through  the  open  door. 

Thou  God  supreme  —  I  too,  I  too,  believe ! 
But  O,  forgive,  if  this  one  human  word, 
Binding  the  deep  and  breathless  thought  of  Thee 
And  my  own  conscience  with  an  iron  band, 
Stick  in  my  throat.   I  cannot  say  it,  thus  — 
This  "I  believe"  that  doth  Thyself  obscure; 
This  rod  to  smite;  this  barrier;  this  blot 
On  Thy  most  unimaginable  face 
And  soul  of  majesty. 

'T  is  not  man's  faith 

In  Thee  that  he  proclaims  in  echoed  phrase, 
But  faith  in  man;  faith  not  in  Thine  own  Christ, 
But  in  another  man's  dim  thought  of  him. 

Christ  of  Judea,  look  thou  in  my  heart! 

Do  I  not  love  thee,  look  to  thee,  in  thee 

Alone  have  faith  of  all  the  sons  of  men  — 

Faith  deepening  with  the  weight  and  woe  of  years. 

Pure  soul  and  tenderest  of  all  that  came 
Into  this  world  of  sorrow,  hear  my  prayer: 

Lead  me,  yea,  lead  me  deeper  into  life, 
This  suffering,  human  life  wherein  thou  liv'st 


NON   SINE    DOLORE  l8l 

And  breathest  still,  and  hold'st  thy  way  divine. 
'T  is  here,  O  pitying  Christ,  where  thee  I  seek, 
Here  where  the  strife  is  fiercest;  where  the  sun 
Beats  down  upon  the  highway  thronged  with  men, 
And  in  the  raging  mart.   O !   deeper  lead 
My  soul  into  the  living  world  of  souls 
Where  thou  dost  move. 

But  lead  me,  Man  Divine, 
Where'er  thou  will'st,  only  that  I  may  find 
At  the  long  journey's  end  thy  image  there, 
And  grow  more  like  to  it.   For  art  not  thou 
The  human  shadow  of  the  infinite  Love 
That  made  and  fills  the  endless  universe ! 
The  very  Word  of  Him,  the  unseen,  unknown 
Eternal  Good  that  rules  the  summer  flower 
And  all  the  worlds  that  people  starry  space ! 

NON   SINE   DOLORE 

i 

WHAT,  then,  is  Life,  —  what  Death? 

Thus  the  Answerer  saith; 

O  faithless  mortal,  bend  thy  head  and  listen: 

Down  o'er  the  vibrant  strings, 

That  thrill,  and  moan,  and  mourn,  and  glisten, 

The  Master  draws  his  bow. 

A  voiceless  pause;  then  upward,  see,  it  springs, 

Free  as  a  bird  with  disimprisoned  wings! 

In  twain  the  chord  was  cloven, 

While,  shaken  with  woe, 

With  breaks  of  instant  joy  all  interwoven, 

Piercing  the  heart  with  lyric  knife, 


1 82  TWO   WORLDS 

On,  on  the  ceaseless  music  sings, 

Restless,  intense,  serene ;  — 

Life  is  the  downward  stroke;  the  upward,  Life; 

Death  but  the  pause  between. 

II 

Then  spake  the  Questioner :  If  't  were  only  this, 
Ah,  who  could  face  the  abyss 
That  plunges  steep  athwart  each  human  breath? 
If  the  new  birth  of  Death 
Meant  only  more  of  Life  as  mortals  know  it, 
What  priestly  balm,  what  song  of  highest  poet. 
Could  heal  one  sentient  soul's  immitigable  pain? 
All,  all  were  vain! 

If,  having  soared  pure  spirit  at  the  last, 
Free  from  the  impertinence  and  warp  of  flesh, 
We  find  half  joy,  half  pain,  on  every  blast; 
Are  caught  again  in  closer-woven  mesh  — 
Ah!  who  would  care  to  die 

From  out  these  fields  and  hills,  and  this  familiar  sky; 
These  firm,  sure  hands  that  compass  us,  this  dear  human 
ity? 

m 

Again  the  Answerer  saith: 

O  ye  of  little  faith, 

Shall,  then,  the  spirit  prove  craven, 

And  Death's  divine  deliverance  but  give 

A  summer  rest  and  haven  ? 

By  all  most  noble  in  us,  by  the  light  that  streams 

Into  our  waking  dreams, 

Ah,  we  who  know  what  Life  is,  let  us  live! 

Clearer  and  freer,  who  shall  doubt? 

Something  of  dust  and  darkness  cast  forever  out; 


NON   SINE   DOLORE  183 

But  Life,  still  Life,  that  leads  to  higher  Life, 
Even  tho'  the  highest  be  not  free  from  the  immortal 
strife. 

The  highest!   Soul  of  man,  O,  be  thou  bold, 
And  to  the  brink  of  thought  draw  near,  behold! 
Where,  on  the  earth's  green  sod, 
Where,  where  in  all  the  universe  of  God, 
Hath  strife  forever  ceased? 

When  hath  not  some  great  orb  flashed  into  space 
The  terror  of  its  doom  ?  When  hath  no  human  face 
Turned  earthward  in  despair, 
For  that  some  horrid  sin  had  stampt  its  image  there? 

If  at  our  passing  Life  be  Life  increased, 
And  we  ourselves  flame  pure  unfettered  soul, 
Like  the  Eternal  Power  that  made  the  whole 
And  lives  in  all  He  made 

From  shore  of  matter  to  the  unknown  spirit  shore; 
If,  sire  to  son,  and  tree  to  limb, 
Cycle  on  countless  cycle  more  and  more 
We  grow  to  be  like  Him; 
If  He  lives  on,  serene  and  unafraid, 
Through  all  His  light,  His  love,  His  living  thought, 
One  with  the  sufferer,  be  it  soul  or  star; 
If  He  escape  not  pain,  what  beings  that  are 
Can  e'er  escape  while  Life  leads  on  and  up  the  unseen 

way  and  far? 

If  He  escape  not,  by  whom  all  was  wrought, 
Then  shall  not  we,  — 
Whate'er  of  godlike  solace  still  may  be,  — 
For  in  all  worlds  there  is  no  Life  without  a  pang,  and  can 

be  naught. 
No  Life  without  a  pang!    It  were  not  Life, 


184  TWO    WORLDS 

If  ended  were  the  strife  — 

Man  were  not  man,  nor  God  were  truly  God! 

See  from  the  sod 

The  lark  thrill  skyward  in  an  arrow  of  song: 
Even  so  from  pain  and  wrong 
Upsprings  the  exultant  spirit,  wild  and  free. 
He  knows  not  all  the  joy  of  liberty 
Who  never  yet  was  crusht  'neath  heavy  woe. 
He  doth  not  know, 
Nor  can,  the  bliss  of  being  brave 

Who  never  hath  faced  death,  nor  with  unquailing  eye  hath 
measured  his  own  grave. 

Courage,  and  pity,  and  divinest  scorn  — 
Self-scorn,  self-pity,  and  high  courage  of  the  soul; 
The  passion  for  the  goal; 
The  strength  to  never  yield  tho'  all  be  lost  — 
All  these  are  born 

Of  endless  strife;  this  is  the  eternal  cost 
Of  every  lovely  thought  that  through  the  portal 
Of  human  minds  doth  pass  with  following  light. 
Blanch  not,  O  trembling  mortal! 
But  with  extreme  and  terrible  delight 
Know  thou  the  truth, 
Nor  let  thy  heart  be  heavy  with  false  ruth. 

No  passing  burden  is  our  earthly  sorrow 
That  shall  depart  in  some  mysterious  morrow. 
'T  is  His  one  universe  where'er  we  are  — 
One  changeless  law  from  sun  to  viewless  star. 
Were  sorrow  evil  here,  evil  it  were  forever, 
Beyond  the  scope  and  help  of  our  most  keen  endeavor. 

God  doth  not  dote, 
His  everlasting  purpose  shall  not  fail. 
Here  where  our  ears  are  weary  with  the  wail 


ODE  185 

And  weeping  of  the  sufferers;  there  where  the  Pleiads 

float  - 

Here,  there,  forever,  pain  most  dread  and  dire 
Doth  bring  the  intensest  bliss,  the  dearest  and  most  sure. 
'T  is  not  from  Life  aside,  it  doth  endure 
Deep  in  the  secret  heart  of  all  existence. 
It  is  the  inward  fire, 
The  heavenly  urge,  and  the  divine  insistence. 

Uplift  thine  eyes,  O  Questioner,  from  the  sod! 
It  were  no  longer  Life, 
If  ended  were  the  strife; 
Man  were  not  man,  God  were  not  truly  God. 


PART   VI 


ODE 

Read  before  the  Alpha  Chapter  of  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society,  Harvard 
University,  June  26,  1890. 


IN  the  white  midday's  full,  imperious  show 
What  glorious  colors  hide  from  human  sight ! 
But  in  the  breathing  pause  'twixt  day  and  night 
Forth  stream  those  prisoned  splendors,  glow  on  glow; 
Like  billows  on  they  pour 
And  beat  against  the  shore 

Of  cloud-wrought  cliffs  high  as  the  utmost  dome, 
To  die  in  purple  waves  that  break  on  dawns  to  come. 

ii 

Divine,  divine!   O,  breathe  no  earthlier  word! 
Behold  the  western  heavens  how  swift  they  flame 
With  hues  that  bring  to  mortal  language  shame; 


1 86  TWO   WORLDS 

Swelling  and  pulsing  like  deep  music  heard 

On  sacred  summer  eves 

When  the  loud  organ  grieves 
And  thrills  with  lyric  life  the  incensed  air, 
While  'mid  the  pillared  gloom  the  people  bow  in  prayer. 

HI 

Now  is  it  some  huge  bird  with  monstrous  vans 
That  through  the  sunset  plies  its  shadowy  way, 
Catching  on  outstretched  pinions  the  last  play 
Of  failing  tint  celestial !   See !  it  spans 
Darkly  the  fading  west, 
And  now  its  beamy  crest 
Follows  from  sight  the  glittering,  golden  sun; 
And  now  one  mighty  wing-beat  more,  and  all  is  done. 

IV 

But  in  those  skyey  spaces  what  dread  change ! 
Thus  have  we  seen  the  mortal  turn  immortal; 
So  doth  the  day's  soul  die,  as  through  death's  portal 
The  soul  of  man  takes  up  its  heavenward  range. 
A  million  orbs  endue 
The  unfathomable  blue  — 
Till,  the  long  miracle  of  night  withdrawn, 
The  world  beholds  once  more  the  miracle  of  dawn. 


Dawn,  eve,  and  night,  the  iridescent  seas, 

Bright  moon,  enlightening  sun,  and  quivering  stars, 
The  midnight  rose  whose  petals  are  the  bars 
Of  Boreal  lights,  the  pomp  of  autumn  trees, 
The  pearl  of  curved  shells, 
The  prismy  bow  that  swells 

'Gainst  stormy  skies  —  these  witness,  these  are  sign 
Of  thee,  O  spirit  of  Beauty,  eternal  and  divine! 


ODE  187 

VI 

And  fairer  still  than  all,  —  chief  sign  of  all, — 
The  naked  loveliness  in  Eden's  bower, 
Whose  flesh  blusht  back  the  tint  of  fruit  and  flower; 
Whose  eye  reflamed  the  starlight;  who  could  call 
Father  and  friend  the  God 
That  pluckt  them  from  the  sod; 
The  Almighty's  image,  and  Creation's  hight; 
Whose  deep  souls  mirrored  clear  the  circling  day  and 
night. 

VII 

Spirit  of  Beauty !  'neath  thy  joyful  spell 
Man  hath  been  ever;  therefore  doth  each  breeze 
Bring  to  his  tranced  ears  glad  melodies, — 
Voices  of  birds,  the  brook's  low,  silvery  bell, — 
Wild  music  manifold, 
Which  he  hath  power  to  hold 
His  own  enchanted  harmonies  among, 
That  echo  round  the  world  the  songs  that  nature  sung. 

vm 

And  thus  all  Beautiful  in  Holiness 
Doth  Israel  stand  before  the  Eternal  One; 
Striking  his  harp  with  rapt,  angelic  tone, 
Till  tribes  and  nations  the  Unseen  God  confess; 
Knowing  that  only  where 
His  face  makes  white  the  air 
Could  such  seraphic  song  have  mortal  birth, 
One  saving  faith  sublime  to  keep  alive  on  earth. 

IX 

And  therefore  with  most  passionate  desire 
And  longing,  man  yearned  ever  to  express 
Thy  majesty,  and  light,  and  loveliness, 


1 88  TWO   WORLDS 

O  Spirit  of  Beauty,  unconsuming  fire! 

Therefore  by  ancient  Nile 

Rose  the  vast  columned  aisle, 
And  on  the  Athenian  Hill  the  wonder  white 
Whose  shattered  glory  is  the  world's  supreme  delight. 


So  is  it  that  to  thy  imperial  shore, 
Bright  Italy!  the  generations  fly, 
Even  but  once  to  breathe,  or  e'er  they  die, 
Where  did  a  godlike  race  its  soul  outpour; 
Its  birth  divine  revealing 
On  glorious  wall  and  ceiling, 
While  dome  and  rhythmic  statue,  Beauty-wrought, 
Declare  all  human  art  is  but  what  Heaven  hath  taught, 

XI 

Fair  Italy !  whose  dread  and  peerless  hight 
The  song  is  of  the  awful  Ghibelline ! 
Poet!  who  'mid  the  threefold  dream  divine 
Didst  follow  Art  and  Love  to  the  Central  Light! 
Tell  us,  O  Dante!  tell 
What  thou  dost  know  so  well, 
That  horror  and  death  are  but  the  shade  and  foil 
Of  Beauty,  deathless,  godlike,  with  never  scathe  or  soil. 

XII 

Spirit  divine !  man  falls  upon  the  sod 
In  awe  of  thee,  in  worship  and  amaze :  — 
Thou  older  than  the  mountains,  or  the  blaze 
Of  sunsets,  or  the  sun;  thou  old  as  God; 
As  God  who  did  create 
Long  ere  man  reached  his  state 
All  shapes  of  natural  Beauty  that  men  see, 
And  His  wide  universe  did  dedicate  to  thee. 


TO   ROSAMOND  189 

XIII 

Ye  who  bear  on  the  torch  of  living  art 
In  this  new  world,  saved  for  some  wondrous  fate, 
Deem  not  that  ye  have  come,  alas,  too  late, 
But  haste  right  forward  with  unfailing  heart ! 
Ye  shall  not  rest  forlorn; 
Behold,  even  now,  the  morn 
Rises  in  splendor  from  the  orient  sea, 
And  the  new  world  shall  greet  a  new  divinity. 

XIV 

Shall  greet,  ah,  who  can -say!  a  nobler  face 
Than  from  the  foam  of  Cytherean  seas: 
Loveliness  lovelier;  mightier  harmonies 
Of  song  and  color;  an  intenser  grace; 
Beauty  that  shall  endure 
Like  Charis,  heavenly-pure; 
A  Spirit  solemn  as  the  starry  night. 
And  full  as  the  triumphant  dawn  of  golden  light. 


AFTER-SONG 

TO   ROSAMOND 

ROSE  of  the  world, 
Bloom  of  the  year, 
Birth  of  the  dawn! 
By  morn's  one  star 
Lighted  to  life!- 
Thou  and  my  songs 
Come  to  the  day 
Hand  claspt  in  hand. 


1 9O  TWO   WORLDS 

Flung  on  this  page 
May  the  glow  of  thy  name 
Back  through  each  song 
Shine  with  the  light 
Drawn  from  the  skies  — 
Thou  birth  of  the  dawn, 
Flower  of  the  morn, 
Rose  of  the  world  1 


THE    GREAT    REMEMBRANCE 

AND  OTHER   POEMS 


THE  GREAT  REMEMBRANCE 

AND   OTHER  POEMS 

PART   I 
-     THE  GREAT  REMEMBRANCE 

Read  at  the  Annual  Reunion  of  the  Society  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac, 
Faneuil  Hall,  Boston,  June  27,  1893. 

COMRADES,  the  circle  narrows,  heads  grow  white, 

As  once  more  by  the  camp-fire's  flaring  light 

We  gather  and  clasp  hands,  as  we  have  done 

These  many,  many  years.   So  long  ago 

A  part  we  were  of  all  that  glorious  show, — 

Stood,  side  by  side,  'neath  the  red  battle-sun, — 

So  long  ago  we  breathed  war's  thunderous  breath, 

Knew  the  white  fury  of  that  life-in-death, 

So  long  ago  that  troubled  joy,  it  seems 

The  valorous  pageant  might  resolve  to  splendid  dreams. 

But  no !  Too  deep  't  is  burned  into  the  brain ! 
As  well  were  lightning-scar  by  summer  rain 
Washed  clean  away,  when  stroke  on  blinding  stroke 
Hath  torn  the  rock,  and  riven  the  blackened  oak. 

How  oft  as  down  these  peaceful  streets  we  pass 
All  vanishes  save,  lo !  the  rutted  grass, 
Wreckt  caissons,  frightened  beasts,  and,  merciful  God ! 
The  piteous  burden  of  the  ensanguined  sod! 

Yet  not  all  terror  doth  the  memory  save 
From  war's  emblazonry  and  open  grave: 
In  glimpses,  flashing  like  a  meteor's  light, 


IQ4  THE  GREAT  REMEMBRANCE 

A  silent  army  marches  through  the  night; 

The  guidons  flutter  in  a  golden  valley 

Where,  at  the  noonday  halt,  the  horsemen  dally; 

Or,  look!  a  thousand  tents  gleam  through  the  black; 

Or,  now,  where  quick-built  camp-fires  flame  and  crack, 

From  blaze  to  shade  men  stretch  o'erwearied  limbs, 

Chant  songs,  or  wake  the  hills  with  chorused  hymns; 

Or,  ere  the  dawn  makes  pale  the  starry  dark, 

The  fiery  signals,  spark  on  trailing  spark, 

Write  on  the  silent  sky  their  still  command, 

While  the  great  army  moves,  drawn  by  a  single  hand. 

So  long  ago  it  seems,  so  long  ago, 
Behold,  our  sons,  grown  men  since  those  great  days,  — 
Born  since  the  last  clear  bugle  ceased  to  blow 
Its  summons  down  the  valley;  since  the  bays 
Shook  with  the  roar  of  fort  and  answering  fleet,  — 
Our  very  children  look  into  our  eyes 
And  find  strange  records,  with  a  mute  surprise; 
As  they  some  curious  traveler  might  greet 
Who  kept  far  countries  in  his  musing  mind, 
Beyond  the  weltering  seas,  the  mountain-walls  behind. 

And  yet  it  was  this  land  and  not  another, 
Where  blazed  war's  flame  and  rolled  the  battle-cloud. 
In  all  this  land  there  was  no  home  where  brother, 
Father,  or  son  hurried  not  forth;  where  bowed 
No  broken-hearted  woman  when  pale  Death 
Laid  his  cold  finger  on  the  loved  one's  breath. 

Like  to  a  drama  did  the  scene  unroll  — 
Some  dark,  majestic  drama  of  the  soul, 
Wherein  all  strove  as  actors,  hour  by  hour, 
Yet  breathless  watched  the  whole  swift,  tragic  play. 
Faithful  did  each  his  little  part  essay, 


THE  GREAT  REMEMBRANCE  195 

Urged  to  an  end  unknown  by  one  all-knowing  Power; 

While  if  the  drama  pauses,  now  and  then, 

On  the  huge  stage,  't  is  for  a  moment  only  — 

Here  at  the  heart  or  in  some  vista  lonely, 

A  single  hero  or  a  million  men, 

And  with  the  tragic  theme  the  world  resounds  again. 

First,  in  the  awful  waiting  came  the  shock, 
The  shame  unbearable,  the  sacred  flag  assailed  — 
Assailed  in  freedom's  name  by  those  who  freedom  mock! 
Ah,  then  the  oath,  to  stand  as  stands  the  rock 
'Gainst  flood  and  tempest,  lest  that  flag  be  trailed 
And  torn,  or  any  star  therefrom  be  lost  — 
The  oath,  murmured  alone,  or  where  the  crowd, 
As  by  a  wind  of  heaven  swept  and  tost, 
Passioned  its  soul  to  God,  and  strong  men  wept  aloud. 

Then  sweet  farewell;  O  bitter-sweet  farewell; 
O  brave  farewell !   Who  were  the  bravest  then, 
Or  they  who  went,  or  waited  —  women  or  men  ? 
They  who  the  cheers  heard,  or  the  funeral  knell  ? 
They  who  stept  proudly  to  the  rattling  drum, 
Inflamed  by  war's  divine  delirium, 
Or  they  who  knew  no  mad  joy  of  the  fight, 
And  yet  breathed  on  through  waiting  day  and  weeping 
night  ? 

Farewell  and  forward!   O,  to  live  it  over, 
The  first  wild  heart-beat  of  heroic  hours! 
Forward,  like  mountain-torrents  after  showers! 
Forward  to  death,  as  to  his  bride  the  lover! 
Forward,  till  quick  recoils  the  impetuous  flood, 
And  ends  the  first  dread  scene  in  terror  and  in  blood! 

Onward  once  more,  through  sun  and  shivering  storm, — 
A  monstrous  length  with  wavering  bulk  enorm, — 
Wounded  or  striking,  bringing  blood  or  bleeding, 


196  THE  GREAT  REMEMBRANCE 

Onward,  still  on,  the  agony  unheeding! 
Onward  with  failing  heart,  or  courage  high ! 
Onward  through  heat,  and  hunger,  and  dismay, 
Turning  the  starry  night  to  murderous  day! 
Onward,  with  hope  appalled,  once  more  to  strike,  and 
die! 

So  marched,  so  fought,  so  agonized,  the  hosts; 
Battling  through  forests;  rotting  where  slow  crawls 
The  deathly  swamp-stream;  and  like  pallid  ghosts 
Haunting  the  hospitals,  and  loathed  prison-walls. 
They  knew  what  freedom  was,  and  right  to  breathe 
Clean  air  who  burrowed  from  the  filth  and  seethe 
Of  foulest  pens,  only  that  dogs  might  track, 
And  to  the  death-pit  drag  their  living  corpses  back. 

O,  would  to  Heaven  some  sights  could  fade  from  out 
Clear  memory's  all  too  melancholy  page  — 
Fade  and  be  gone  forever!    Let  the  shout 
Of  victory  only  linger,  and  the  rage 
And  glory  of  battle  over  land  and  sea, 
And  all  that  noblest  is  in  war's  fierce  pageantry. 

Echoes  of  deeds  immortal,  O,  awake! 
Tremble  to  language,  into  music  break, 
Till  lyric  memory  takes  the  old  emotion, 
And  leaps  from  heart  to  heart  the  ancient  thrill! 
Tell  of  great  deeds  that  yet  the  wide  earth  fill : 
How  first  upon  the  amazed  waves  of  ocean 
The  black,  infernal,  deadly  armored-ships 
Together  rushed,  and  all  the  world  stood  still, 
While  a  new  word  of  war  burst  from  those  iron  lips; 
How  up  the  rivers  thundered  the  strong  fleets; 
How  the  great  captains  'gainst  each  other  dashed 
Gigantic  armies.   What  wild  welcome  meets 
Some  well-loved  chief  who,  ere  those  armies  clashed, 


THE  GREAT  REMEMBRANCE  197 

Rides  like  a  whirlwind  the  embattled  line, 
Kindling  the  stricken  ranks  to  bravery  divine ! 
And,  hark,  at  set  of  sun,  the  cheer  that  greets 
Victorious  news  from  far-off  armies,  flashed 
From  camp  to  camp,  with  roar  on  answering  roar, 
Like  bellowing  waves  that  track  the  tempest  down  the 

shore. 

But  chiefly  tell  of  that  one  hour  of  all 
When  threatening  war  rolled  highest  its  full  tide, 
Even  to  the  perilous  northern  mountain-side 
Where  Heaven  should  bid  our  good  cause  rise  or  fall. 
Tell  of  that  hour,  for  never  in  all  the  world 
Was  braver  army  'gainst  a  braver  hurled. 
To  both  the  victory,  all  unawares, 
Beyond  all  dreams  of  losing  or  of  winning; 
For  the  new  land  which  now  is  ours  and  theirs, 
Had  on  that  topmost  day  its  glorious  beginning. 
They  who  charged  up  that  drenched  and  desperate  slope 
Were  heroes  all  —  and  looked  in  heroes'  eyes! 
Ah !  heroes  never  heroes  did  despise ! 
That  day  had  Strife  its  bloodiest  bourn  and  scope; 
Above  the  shaken  hills  and  sulphurous  skies 
Peace  lifted  up  her  mournful  head  and  smiled  on  Hope. 

Rushed  the  great  drama  on  its  tragic  way 
Swift  to  the  happy  end  from  that  tremendous  day. 
Happy,  indeed,  could  memory  lose  her  power 
And  yield  to  joy  alone  the  glad,  triumphant  hour; 
Happy  if  every  aching  heart  could  shun 
Remembrance  of  the  unreturning  one; 
If  at  the  Grand  Review,  when  mile  on  mile 
And  day  on  day  the  marching  columns  past, 
Darkened  not  o'er  the  world  the  shadow  vast 
Of  his  foul  murder  —  he  the  free  from  guile, 


198  THE  GREAT  REMEMBRANCE 

Sad-hearted,  loving,  and  beloved,  and  wise, 
Who  ruled  with  sinewy  hands  and  dreaming  eyes. 
What  soul  that  lived  then  who  remembers  not 
The  hour,  the  landscape,  ah !  the  very  spot,  — 
Hateful  for  aye,  —  where  news  that  he  was  slain 
Struck  like  a  hammer  on  the  dazed  brain! 

So  long  ago  it  was,  so  long  ago, 
All,  all  have  past;  the  terror  and  the  splendor 
Have  turned  like  yester-evening's  stormy  glow 
Into  a  sunset  memory  strange  and  tender. 
How  beautiful  it  seems,  what  lordly  sights, 
What  deeds  sublime,  what  wondrous  days  and  nights, 
What  love  of  comrades,  ay,  what  quickened  breath, 
When  first  we  knew  that,  startled,  quailing,  still 
We  too,  even  we,  along  the  blazing  hill, 
We,  with  the  best,  could  face  and  conquer  death ! 

Glorious  all  these,  but  these  all  less  than  naught 
To  the  one  passion  of  those  days  divine, 
Love  of  the  land  our  own  hearts'  blood  had  bought  — 
Our  country,  our  own  country,  yours  and  mine. 
Then  known,  then  sternly  loved,  first  in  our  lives. 
Ah!  loved  we  not  our  children,  sisters,  wives? 
But  our  own  country,  this  was  more  than  they,  — 
Our  wives,  our  children,  this,  —  our  hope,  our  love 
For  all  most  dear,  but  more  —  the  dawning  day 
Of  freedom  for  the  world,  the  hope  above 
All  hope  for  the  sad  race  of  man.   For  where, 
In  what  more  lovely  world,  'neath  skies  more  fair, 
If  freedom  here  should  fail,  could  it  find  soil  and  air? 

In  this  one  thought,  one  passion,  —  whate'er  fate 
Still  may  befall,  — •  one  moment  we  were  great ! 
One  moment  in  life's  brief,  perplexed  hour 


THE  GREAT  REMEMBRANCE  199 

We  climbed  the  hight  of  being,  and  the  power 
That  falls  alone  on  those  who  love  their  kind 
A  moment  made  us  one  with  the  Eternal  Mind. 

One  moment,  ah !  not  so,  dear  Country !   Thou 
Art  still  our  passion ;  still  to  thee  we  bow 
In  love  supreme!   Fairer  than  e'er  before 
Art  thou  to-day,  from  golden  shore  to  shore 
The  home  of  freemen.   Not  one  stain  doth  cling 
Now  to  thy  banner.    Argosies  of  war 
On  thy  imperial  rivers  bravely  fling 
Flags  of  the  nations,  but  no  message  bring 
Save  of  peace  only;  while,  behold,  from  far 
The  Old  World  comes  to  greet  thy  natal  star 
That  with  the  circling  century  returns, 
And  in  the  Western  heavens  with  fourfold  beauty  burns. 

Land  that  we  love!  Thou  Future  of  the  World! 
Thou  refuge  of  the  noble  heart  opprest! 
O,  never  be  thy  shining  image  hurled 
From  its  high  place  in  the  adoring  breast 
Of  him  who  worships  thee  with  jealous  love ! 
Keep  thou  thy  starry  forehead  as  the  dove 
All  white,  and  to  the  eternal  Dawn  inclined! 
Thou  art  not  for  thyself  but  for  mankind, 
And  to  despair  of  thee  were  to  despair 
Of  man,  of  man's  high  destiny,  of  God! 
Of  thee  should  man  despair,  the  journey  trod 
Upward,  through  unknown  eons,  stair  on  stair, 
By  this  our  race,  with  bleeding  feet  and  slow, 
Were  but  the  pathway  to  a  darker  woe 
Than  yet  was  visioned  by  the  heavy  heart 
Of  prophet.   To  despair  of  thee !   Ah,  no ! 
For  thou  thyself  art  Hope,  Hope  of  the  World  thou  art ! 


200  THE   GREAT  REMEMBRANCE 

Comrades  beloved,  see,  the  fire  burns  low, 
And  darkness  thickens.   Soon  shall  our  brief  part 
On  earth  forever  end,  and  we  shall  go 
To  join  the  unseen  ranks;  nor  will  we  swerve 
Or  fear,  when  to  the  silent,  great  reserve 
At  last  we  ordered  are  —  as  one  by  one 
Our  Captains  have  been  called,  their  labors  done, 
To  rest  and  wait  in  the  Celestial  Field. 
Ay,  year  by  year,  we  to  the  dead  did  yield 
Our  bravest.   Them  we  followed  to  the  tomb 
Sorrowing ;  for  they  were  worthy  of  our  love  — 
High-souled  and  generous,  loving  peace  above 
War  and  its  glories:  therefore  lives  no  gloom 
In  this  our  sorrow;  rather  pride,  and  praise, 
And  gratitude,  and  memory  of  old  days. 

A  little  while  and  these  tired  hands  will  cease 
To  lift  obedient  or  in  war  or  peace  — 
Faithful  we  trust  in  peace  as  once  in  war; 
And  on  the  scroll  of  peace  some  triumphs  are 
Noble  as  battles  won;  tho'  less  resounds 
The  fame,  as  deep  and  bitter  are  the  wounds. 

But  now  the  fire  burns  low,  and  we  must  sleep 
Erelong,  while  other  eyes  than  ours  the  vigil  keep. 
And  after  we  are  gone,  to  other  eyes 
That  watch  below  shall  come,  in  starry  skies, 
A  fairer  dawn,  whereon  in  fiery  light 
The  Eternal  Captain  shall  his  signals  write; 
And  shaken  from  rest,  and  gazing  at  that  sign, 
On  shall  the  mighty  Nation  move,  led  by  a  hand  divine. 


THE   WHITE   CITY  2OI 

PART  II 

"THE  WHITE  CITY" 

(THE  COLUMBIAN  EXPOSITION) 

i 

GREECE  was;  Greece  is  no  more. 

Temple  and  town 

Have  crumbled  down; 

Time  is  the  fire  that  hath  consumed  them  all. 

Statue  and  wall 

In  ruin  strew  the  universal  floor. 


Greece  lives,  but  Greece  no  more! 

Its  ashes  breed 

The  undying  seed 

Blown  westward  till,  in  Rome's  imperial  towers, 

Athens  reflowers; 

Still  westward  —  lo,  a  veiled  and  virgin  shore ! 

in 

Say  not,  "  Greece  is  no  more." 

Through  the  clear  morn 

On  light  winds  borne 

Her  white-winged  soul  sinks  on  the  New  World's  breast. 

Ah !  happy  West  — 

Greece  flowers  anew,  and  all  her  temples  soar! 

IV 

One  bright  hour,  then  no  more 
Shall  to  the  skies 
These  columns  rise. 


202  THE   GREAT  REMEMBRANCE 

But  tho'  art's  flower  shall  fade,  again  the  seed 

Onward  shall  speed, 

Quickening  the  land  from  lake  to  ocean's  roar. 

v 

Art  lives,  tho'  Greece  may  never 
From  the  ancient  mold 
As  once  of  old 

Exhale  to  heaven  the  inimitable  bloom; 
Yet  from  that  tomb 
Beauty  walks  forth  to  light  the  world  forever! 

THE  VANISHING  CITY 


ENRAPTURED  memory,  and  all  ye  powers  of  being, 

To  new  life  waken !   Stamp  the  vision  clear 
On  the  soul's  inmost  substance.   O,  let  seeing 

Be  more  than  seeing;  let  the  entranced  ear 
Take  deep  these  surging  sounds,  inweaved  with  light 

Of  unimagined  radiance;  let  the  intense 
Illumined  loveliness  that  thrills  the  night 

Strike  in  the  human  heart  some  deeper  sense! 
So  shall  these  domes  that  meet  heaven's  curved  blue, 

And  yon  long,  white,  imperial  colonnade, 
And  many-columned  peristyle,  endue 

The  mind  with  beauty  that  shall  never  fade; 
Tho'  all  too  soon  to  dark  oblivion  wending  — 
Reared  in  one  happy  hour  to  know  as  swift  an  ending. 

ii 

Thou  shalt  of  all  the  cities  of  the  world 
Famed  for  their  grandeur,  evermore  endure 

Imperishably  and  all  alone  impearled 

In  the  world's  living  thought,  the  one  most  sure 


THE   VANISHING   CITY  203 

Of  love  undying  and  of  endless  praise 

For  beauty  only  —  chief  of  all  thy  kind ; 
Immortal,  even  because  of  thy  brief  days; 

Thou  cloud-built,  fairy  city  of  the  mind! 
Here  man  doth  pluck  from  the  full  tree  of  life 

The  latest,  lordliest  flower  of  earthly  art; 
This  doth  he  breathe,  while  resting  from  his  strife, 

This  presses  he  against  his  weary  heart; 
Then,  wakening  from  his  dream  within  a  dream, 
He  flings  the   faded   flower  on   Time's  down-rushing 
stream. 

in 

O,  never  as  here  in  the  eternal  years 

Hath  burst  to  bloom  man's  free  and  soaring  spirit, 
Joyous,  untrammeled,  all  untouched  by  tears 

And  the  dark  weight  of  woe  it  doth  inherit. 
Never  so  swift  the  mind's  imaginings 

Caught  sculptured  form,  and  color.   Never  before, — 
Save  where  the  soul  beats  unembodied  wings 

'Gainst  viewless  skies,— was  such  enchanted  shore 
Jeweled  with  ivory  palaces  like  these : 

By  day  a  miracle,  a  dream  by  night; 
Yet  real  as  beauty  is,  and  as  the  seas 

Whose  waves  glance  back  keen  lines  of  glittering  light 
When  million  lamps,  and  coronets  of  fire, 
And  fountains  as  of  flame,  to  the  bright  stars  aspire. 

IV 

Glide,  magic  boat,  from  out  the  green  lagoon, 
'Neath  the  dark  bridge,  into  this  smiting  glow 

And  unthought  glory.   Even  the  glistening  moon 
Hangs  in  the  nearer  splendor.  Let  not  go 

The  scene,  my  soul,  till  ever  't  is  thine  own! 
This  is  Art's  citadel  and  crown.   How  still 


204  THE  GREAT  REMEMBRANCE 

The  innumerous  multitudes  from  every  zone, 
That  watch  and  listen;  while  each  eye  doth  fill 

With  joyous  tears  unwept.   Now  solemn  strains 
Of  brazen  music  give  the  waiting  soul 

Voice  and  a  sigh  —  it  other  speech  disdains, 
Here  where  the  visual  sense  faints  to  its  goall 

Ah,  silent  multitudes,  ye  are  a  part 

Of  the  wise  architect's  supreme  and  glorious  art! 


O  joy  almost  too  high  for  saddened  mortal! 

O  ecstasy  envisioned!   Thou  shouldst  be 
Lasting  as  thou  art  lovely;  as  immortal 

As  through  all  time  the  matchless  thought  of  thee ! 
Yet  would  we  miss,  then,  the  sweet,  piercing  pain 

Of  thy  inconstancy !   Could  we  but  banish 
This  haunting  pang,  ah,  then  thou  wouldst  not  reign 

One  with  the  golden  sunset  that  doth  vanish 
Through  myriad  lingering  tints  down  melting  skies; 

Nor  the  pale  mystery  of  the  New  World  flower 
That  blooms  once  only,  then  forever  dies  — 

Pouring  a  century's  wealth  on  one  dear  hour. 
Then  vanish,  City  of  Dream,  and  be  no  more; 
Soon  shall  this  fair  Earth's  self  be  lost  on  the  unknown 
shore. 


THE  TOWER  OF  FLAME 

(THE   COLUMBIAN   EXPOSITION,  JULY  IO,  1893) 

HERE  for  the  world  to  see  men  brought  their  fairest, 
Whatever  of  beauty  is  in  all  the  earth; 

The  priceless  flower  of  art,  the  loveliest,  rarest, 
Here  by  our  inland  ocean  came  to  glorious  birth. 


LOWELL  2O5 

Yet  on  this  day  of  doom  a  strange  new  splendor 
Shed  its  celestial  light  on  all  men's  eyes: 

Flower  of  the  hero-soul, —  consummate,  tender, — 
That  from  the  tower  of  flame  sprang  to  the  eternal 
skies. 

LOWELL 


FROM  the  shade  of  the  elms  that  murmured  above  thy 

birth 
Anfl  the  pines  that  sheltered  thy  life  and  shadowed  the 

end, 

'Neath  the  white-blue  skies  thee  to  thy  rest  we  bore, — 
'Neath  the  summer  skies  thou  didst  love,  'mid  the  songs 

of  thy  birds, 
By  thy  childhood's  stream,   'neath  the  grass  and  the 

flowers  thou  knewest, 
Near  the  grave  of  the  singer  whose  name  with  thine  own 

is  enlaureled, 

By  the  side  of  the  brave  who  live  in  thy  deathless  song,  — 
Here  all  that  was  mortal  of  thee  we  left,  with  our  tears, 
With  our  love,  and  our  grief  that  could  not  be  quenched 

or  abated; 

For  even  the  part  that  was  mortal,  sweet  friend  and  com 
panion  ! 

That  face,  and  that  figure  of  beauty,  and  flashing  eye 
Which  in  youth  shone  forth  like  a  god's  'mid  lesser  men, 
And  in  gray-haired,  strenuous  age  still  glowed  and  lus- 

tered,— 

These,  too,  were  dear  to  us,  —  blame  us  not,  soaring  spirit ! 
These,  too,  were  dear,  and  now  we  shall  never  behold 

them, 
Nor  ever  shall  feel  the  quick  clasp  of  thy  welcoming  hand. 


206  THE   GREAT  REMEMBRANCE 

II 

But  not  for  ourselves  alone  are  we  spent  in  grieving, 
For  the  stricken  Land  we  mourn  whose  light  is  darkened, 
Whose  soul  in  sorrow  went  forth  in  the  night-time  with 

thine. 

Lover  and  laureate  thou  of  the  wide  New  World, 
Whose  pines,  and  prairies,  and  people,  and  teeming  soil, 
Where  was  shaken  of  old  the  seed  of  the  freedom  of  men, 
Thou  didst  love  as  a  strong  man  loveth  the  maiden  he 

woos, — 
Not  the  woman  he  toys  with,  and  sings  to,  and,  passing, 

forgets,— 

Whom  he  woos,  whom  he  wins,  whom  he  weds;  his  pas 
sion,  his  pride; 
Who  no  shadow  of  wrong  shall  suffer,  who  shall  stand  in 

his  sight 

Pure  as  the  sky  of  the  evil  her  foeman  may  threat, 
Save  by  word  or  by  thought  of  her  own  in  her  whiteness 

untouched 
And  wounded  alone  of  the  lightning  her  spirit  engenders. 

m 

Take  of  thy  grief  new  strength,  new  life,  O  Land! 
Weep  no  more  he  is  lost,  but  rejoice  and  be  glad  forever 
That  thy  lover  who  died  was  born,  for  thy  pleasure,  thy 

glory  — 
While  his  love  and  his  fame  light  ever  thy  climbing  path. 

August  14,  1891. 

THE  SILENCE  OF  TENNYSON 

WHEN  that  great  shade  into  the  silence  vast 

Through  thinking  silence  past; 

When  he,  our  century's  soul  and  voice,  was  husht, 


A   HERO    OF   PEACE  207 

We  who,  —  appalled,  bowed,  crusht, — 

Within  the  holy  moonlight  of  his  death 

Waited  the  parting  breath; 

Ah,  not  in  song 

Might  we  our  grief  prolong. 

Silence  alone,  O  golden  spirit  fled ! 

Silence  alone  could  mourn  that  silence  dread. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  GREAT  MAN 

PHILLIPS   BROOKS 

WHEN  from  this  mortal  scene 

A  great  soul  passes  to  the  vast  unknown, 

Let  not  in  hopeless  grief  the  spirit  groan. 

Death  comes  to  all,  the  mighty  and  the  mean. 

If  by  that  death  the  whole  world  suffer  loss, 

This  be  the  proof  (and  lighter  thus  our  cross), 

That  he  for  whom  the  world  doth  sorely  grieve 

Greatly  hath  blessed  mankind  in  that  he  once  did  live. 

Then,  at  the  parting  breath 

Let  men  praise  Life,  nor  idly  blame  dark  Death. 

A  HERO   OF   PEACE 

IN  MEMORY   OF   ROBERT   ROSS:  SHOT   MARCH   6,    1894 

"No  bugle  on  the  blast 

Calls  warriors  face  to  face; 
Grim  battle  being  forever  past, 
Gone  is  the  hero-race." 

Ah,  no !  there  is  no  peace ! 

If  liberty  shall  live, 
Never  may  freemen  dare  to  cease 

Their  love,  their  life  to  give. 


208  THE   GREAT  REMEMBRANCE 

Unto  the  patriot's  heart 

The  silent  summons  comes; 
Not  braver  he  who  does  his  part 

To  the  sound  of  beating  drums. 

And  thou  who  gavest  youth, 

And  life,  and  all  most  dear; 
Sweet  soul,  impassionate  of  truth, 

White  on  thy  murdered  bier !  — 

Thy  deed,  thy  date,  thy  name 

Are  wreathed  with  deathless  flowers. 

Thy  fate  shall  be  the  guiding  flame 
That  lights  to  nobler  hours. 

WASHINGTON  AT  TRENTON 

THE   BATTLE   MONUMENT,   OCTOBER    IQ,    1893 

SINCE  ancient  Time  began, 

Ever  on  some  great  soul  God  laid  an  infinite  burden  — 
The  weight  of  all  this  world,  the  hopes  of  man. 

Conflict  and  pain,  and  fame  immortal  are  his  guerdon! 

And  this  the  unfaltering  token 

Of  him,  the  Deliverer  —  what  tho'  tempests  beat, 
Tho'  all  else  fail,  tho'  bravest  ranks  be  broken, 

He  stands  unscared,  alone,  nor  ever  knows  defeat. 

Such  was  that  man  of  men; 

And  if  are  praised  all  virtues,  every  fame 
Most  noble,  highest,  purest  —  then,  ah !  then, 

Upleaps  in  every  heart  the  name  none  needs  to  name. 

Ye  who  defeated,  'whelmed, 
Betray  the  sacred  cause,  let  go  the  trust; 


A   MONUMENT   BY   SAINT-GAUDENS        209 

Sleep,  weary,  while  the  vessel  drifts  unhelmed; 
Here  see  in  triumph  rise  the  hero  from  the  dust ! 

All  ye  who  fight  forlorn 

'Gainst  fate  and  failure;  ye  who  proudly  cope 
With  evil  high  enthroned;  all  ye  who  scorn 

Life  from  Dishonor's  hand,  here  take  new  heart  of 
hope. 

Here  know  how  Victory  borrows 

For  the  brave  soul  a  front  as  of  disaster, 

And  from  the  bannered  East  what  glorious  morrows 
For  all  the  blackness  of  the  night  speed  surer,  faster. 

Know  by  this  pillared  sign 

For  what  brief  while  the  powers  of  earth  and  hell 
Can  war  against  the  spirit  of  truth  divine, 

Or  can  against  the  heroic  heart  of  man  prevail. 


FAME 

FAME  is  an  honest  thing, 

It  is  deceived  not; 

It  passes  by  the  palace  gates 

Where  the  crowned  usurper  waits, 

Enters  the  peasant-poet's  cot 

And  cries:  "Thou  art  the  king!" 

A  MONUMENT  BY  SAINT-GAUDENS 

THIS  is  not  Death,  nor  Sorrow,  nor  sad  Hope; 
Nor  Rest  that  follows  strife.   But,  O,  more  dread! 
'T  is  Life,  for  all  its  agony  serene; 
Immortal,  and  unmournful,  and  content. 


210  THE   GREAT  REMEMBRANCE 

A  MEMORY  OF  RUBINSTEIN 

HE  of  the  ocean  is,  its  thunderous  waves 

Echo  his  music;  while  far  down  the  shore 

Mad  laughter  hurries  —  a  white,  blowing  spume. 

I  hear  again  in  memory  that  wild  storm; 

The  winds  of  heaven  go  rushing  round  the  world, 

And  broods  above  the  rage  one  sphinx-like  face. 

PADEREWSKI 


IF  songs  were  perfume,  color,  wild  desire; 

If  poet's  words  were  fire 

That  burned  to  blood  in  purple-pulsing  veins; 

If  with  a  bird-like  thrill  the  moments  throbbed  to  hours; 

If  summer's  rains 

Turned  drop  by  drop  to  shy,  sweet,  maiden  flowers; 

If  God  made  flowers  with  light  and  music  in  them, 

And  saddened  hearts  could  win  them; 

If  loosened  petals  touched  the  ground 

With  a  caressing  sound; 

If  love's  eyes  uttered  word 
No  listening  lover  e'er  before  had  heard; 
If  silent  thoughts  spake  with  a  bugle's  voice; 
If  flame  passed  into  song  and  cried,  "  Rejoice !  Rejoice ! " 

If  words  could  picture  life's,  hope's,  heaven's  eclipse 
When  the  last  kiss  has  fallen  on  dying  eyes  and  lips; 
If  all  of  mortal  woe 
Struck  on  one  heart  with  breathless  blow  on  blow; 

If  melody  were  tears,  and  tears  were  starry  gleams 
That  shone  in  evening's  amethystine  dreams; 
Ah,  yes,  if  notes  were  stars,  each  star  a  different  hue, 
Trembling  to  earth  in  dew; 


HANDEL'S  LARGO  211 

Or  if  the  boreal  pulsings,  rose  and  white, 

Made  a  majestic  music  in  the  night; 

If  all  the  orbs  lost  in  the  light  of  day 

In  the  deep,  silent  blue  began  their  harps  to  play; 

And  when  in  frightening  skies  the  lightnings  flashed 
And  storm-clouds  crashed, 
If  every  stroke  of  light  and  sound  were  but  excess  of 

beauty ; 

If  human  syllables  could  e'er  refashion 
That  fierce  electric  passion; 

If  other  art  could  match  (as  were  the  poet's  duty) 
The  grieving,  and  the  rapture,  and  the  thunder 
Of  that  keen  hour  of  wonder, — 

That  light  as  if  of  heaven,  that  blackness  as  of  hell, — 
How  the  great  master  plays  then  might  I  dare  to  tell. 


How  the  great  master  plays!   And  was  it  he 
Or  some  disbodied  spirit  which  had  rushed 
From  silence  into  singing;  and  had  crushed 
Into  one  startled  hour  a  life's  felicity, 
And  highest  bliss  of  knowledge  -/  that  all  pain,  grief, 

wrong, 
Turn  at  the  last  to  beauty  and  to  song ! } 

HANDEL'S  LARGO 

WHEN  the  great  organs,  answering  each  to  each, 
Joined  with  the  violin's  celestial  speech, 
Then  did  it  seem  that  all  the  heavenly  host 
Gave  praise  to  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost : 
We  saw  the  archangels  through  the  ether  winging; 
We  heard  their  souls  go  forth  in  solemn  singing; 
"Praise,  praise  to  God,"  they  sang,  "through  endless 
days, 


212  THE   GREAT  REMEMBRANCE 

Praise  to  the  Eternal  One,  and  naught  but  praise"; 
And  as  they  sang  the  spirits  of  the  dying 
Were  upward  borne  from  lips  that  ceased  their  sighing; 
And  dying  was  not  death,  but  deeper  living  — 
Living,  and  prayer,  and  praising  and  thanksgiving! 

THE  STAIRWAY 

BY  this  stairway  narrow,  steep, 

Thou  shalt  climb  from  song  to  sleep; 

From  sleep  to  dream  and  song  once  more ;  — 

Sleep  well,  sweet  friend,  sleep  well,  dream  deep! 

THE  ACTOR 

GLORIOUS  that  ancient  art !  — 
In  thine  own  form  to  show  the  fire  and  fashion 
Of  every  age  and  clime,  of  every  passion 
That  dwells  in  man's  deep  heart ! 

Player,  play  well,  not  meanly, 

Thy  part  in  life,  as  on  the  mimic  stage! 

From  highest  thought  is  born  art's  noblest  rage: 

Live,  act,  end  all,  serenely! 

THE   STRICKEN  PLAYER 

WHEN  at  life's  last  the  stricken  player  lies, 
When  throng  before  his  darkened,  dreaming  eyes 
His  soul's  companions,  which  more  real  then  — 
The  human  comrades,  the  live  women  and  men 
Of  the  large  world  he  knew,  or  the  ideal 
Imagined  creatures  his  own  art  made  real; 
Wherein  he  poured  his  spirit's  very  being, 
His  soul  and  body?   Are  those  dim  eyes  seeing 


AN   AUTUMN   DIRGE  213 

Himself  as  one  of  Shakespeare's  men  ?  Are  maids 
And  queens  he  wooed,  the  kings  he  was,  or  knew 
Upon  the  tragic  stage,  are  these  the  shades 
That  now  his  visionary  hours  pursue, 
Attendant  on  his  passing?  Listen  near! 
What  breathed  murmurs  'scape  those  pallid  lips 
To  which  the  nations  hearkened,  ere  the  eclipse 
Of  all  that  brightness?   Now  lean  close  and  hear; 
Ah,  see  that  look,  sweeter  than  when  he  smiled 
Upon  the  applauding  world,  while  she  draws  near 
And  hears  a  dear  voice  whisper:  "Child,  my  Child  1" 

AN  AUTUMN  DIRGE 

(E.  F.  H.) 
i 

O  EASE  my  heart,  sad  song,  O  ease  my  heart! 

In  all  this  autumn  pageantry  no  part 

Hath  sorrow !  Woods,  and  fields,  and  meadows  glow 

With  jeweled  colors.  All  alone  I  go 

Amid  the  poignant  beauty  of  the  year, 

Too  heavy-hearted  for  one  easeful  tear. 
For  she  who  loved  this  autumn  splendor, 

These  flaming  marsh-flowers,  oak-leaves  rich  and  ten 
der,  — 

And  who  in  loving  all,  made  all  to  me  more  dear,  — • 

No  more  is  here; 

No  more,  no  more  is  here ! 

Sad  song,  O,  bring  some  thought 

With  music  from  some  happy  memory  caught! 

No  light  for  me  in  all  the  lovely  day 

Those  eyes  being  shut  that  first  did  lead  the  way 

'Neath  these  great  pines  whose  green  vault  hides  the  sky, 

And  down  the  rock-strewn  shore  where  the  white  sea- 
birds  cry ! 


214  THE  GREAT  REMEMBRANCE 

II 

All  fades  but  those  young,  happy  hours, 
And  in  my  soul  once  more  the  old  joy  flowers. 
It  flowers  once  more  only  to  bring  new  pain; 
For  all  in  vain, 

O  song!  thou  singest  in  my  grieving  heart! 
Thou  hast  no  art 

To  bring  again  the  smile  I  loved  so  well, 
The  voice  that  like  a  bell 
Sounded  all  moods  of  sorrow  and  of  laughter, 
And  the  dear  presence  that   in   childhood's  earliest 

thought, 

And  all  the  bright  or  darkened  days  thereafter, 
Into  my  life  a  saddened  sweetness  brought  — 
Something  of  mother  and  of  sister  love, 
A  friendship  far  above 
The  ties  that  bind  and  loosen  as  we  tread 
The  thronged  pleasures  of  life's  later  days. 

Sweet  maiden  soul,  I  cannot  praise 
But  mourn  thee,  mourn  thee,  to  the  shadows  fled. 

in 

Shadows,  O  nevermore! 
For  when  past  forth  thy  spirit  it  did  seem 
As  if  against  the  black  a  golden  door 
Were  opened  and  a  gleam 
From  the  eternal  Light  fell  on  thy  face 
And  made  a  visible  glory  in  the  place. 

Ah,  well  I  know 

Whatever  be  the  source  from  whence  we  flow, 
Whate'er  the  power  begot  these  hearts  of  ours, — 
As  the  great  earth  brings  forth  the  summer  flowers,  — 
That  power  is  good,  is  God,  and  in  her  dying  room 
Humaned  itself  to  sense  and  lightened  all  the  gloom. 


AT   NIAGARA  215 

ELEONORA  DUSE 

IF  ever  flashed  upon  this  mortal  scene 

A  soul  unsheathed,  a  pale,  trembling  flame, 

That  suffered  every  gust,  and  yet  did  cling 

With  fire  unquenchable  —  it  is  thine  own, 

Thou  artist  of  the  real!   Unto  thee 

No  mirth  of  life  is  secret;  but,  sweet  soul, 

With  what  sure  art  thou  picturest  human  woe! 

How  natural  tears  to  those  Italian  eyes  — 

Shadowing  in  untold  depths  whatever  grief 

Familiar  is  to  mortals! 

KELP   ROCK 
(E.  c.  s.) 

ROCK'S  the  song-soil,  truly 
(So  sang  one  bard  of  power) ; 
Therefore  our  poet  duly 
Built  on  this  rock  his  tower; 
And  therefore  in  his  singing 
We  breathe  the  salty  morning; 
We  hear  the  storm-bell  ringing, 
The  "siren's"  piercing  warning, 
The  sea-winds  roaring,  sighing, 
The  long  waves  rising,  falling; 
We  hear  the  herons  calling, 
The  clashing  waves  replying. 

AT  NIAGARA 

i 

THERE  at  the  chasm's  edge  behold  her  lean 

Trembling  as,  'neath  the  charm, 

A  wild  bird  lifts  no  wing  to  'scape  from  harm; 


2l6  THE  GREAT  REMEMBRANCE 

Her  very  soul  drawn  to  the  glittering,  green, 
Smooth,  lustrous,  awful,  lovely  curve  of  peril; 
While  far  below  the  bending  sea  of  beryl 
Thunder  and  tumult  —  whence  a  billowy  spray 
Enclouds  the  day. 

ii 

What  dream  is  hers?    No  dream  hath  wrought  that 

spell! 

The  long  waves  rise  and  sink ; 
Pity  that  virgin  soul  on  passion's  brink, 
Confronting  Fate,  —  swift,  unescapable,  — 
Fate,  which  of  nature  is  the  intent  and  core, 
And  dark  and  strong  as  the  steep  river's  pour, 
Cruel  as  love,  and  wild  as  love's  first  kiss! 
Ah,  God!  the  abyss! 

THE  CHILD-GARDEN 

IN  the  child-garden  buds  and  blows 
A  blossom  lovelier  than  the  rose. 

If  all  the  flowers  of  all  the  earth 
In  one  garden  broke  to  birth, 

Not  the  fairest  of  the  fair 

Could  with  this  sweet  bloom  compare; 

Nor  would  all  their  shining  be 
Peer  to  its  lone  bravery. 

Fairer  than  the  rose,  I  say? 
Fairer  than  the  sun-bright  day 

In  whose  rays  all  glories  show, 
All  beauty  is,  all  blossoms  blow; 


THE   CHRIST-CHILD  217 

While  beside  it  deeply  shine 
Blooms  that  take  its  light  divine: 

The  perilous  sweet  flower  of  Hope 
Here  its  hiding  eyes  doth  ope, 

And  Gentleness  doth  near  uphold 
Its  healing  leaves  and  heart  of  gold; 

Here  tender  fingers  push  the  seed 

Of  Knowledge;  pluck  the  poisonous  weed; 

Here  blossoms  Joy  one  singing  hour, 
And  here  of  Love  the  immortal  flower. 

What  this  blossom,  fragrant,  tender, 
That  outbeams  the  rose's  splendor  — 

Purer  is,  more  tinct  with  light 
Than  the  lily's  flame  of  white? 

Of  beauty  hath  this  flower  the  whole, 
And  its  name  —  the  Human  Soul ! 


THE  CHRIST-CHILD 

A   PICTURE   BY   FRANK  VINCENT  DU  MOND 

DONE  is  the  day  of  care. 

Into  the  shadowy  room 

Flows  the  pure  evening  light, 

To  stem  the  gathering  gloom, 

The  lily's  flame  illume, 

And  the  bowed  heads  make  bright 

The  heads  bowed  low  in  prayer. 


2l8  THE  GREAT  REMEMBRANCE 

See  how  the  level  rays 
Through  the  white  garments  pour 
Of  the  holy  child,  who  stands, 
With  bending  brow,  to  implore 
Grace  on  the  toilers'  store; 
O,  see  those  sinless  hands! 
Behold,  the  Christ-child  prays! 

Wait,  wait,  ye  lingering  rays, 
Stand  still,  O  Earth  and  Sun, 
Draw  near,  thou  Soul  of  God  — 
This  is  the  suffering  one ! 
Already  the  way  is  begun 
The  pierced  Savior  trod; 
And  now  the  Christ-child  prays, 
The  holy  Christ-child  prays. 

A   CHILD 

HER  voice  was  like  the  song  of  birds; 

Her  eyes  were  like  the  stars; 
Her  little  waving  hands  were  like 

Bird's  wings  that  beat  the  bars. 

And  when  those  waving  hands  were  still, 
Her  soul  had  fled  away,  — 

The  music  faded  from  the  air, 
The  color  from  the  day. 

TWO  VALLEYS 

YES,  'tis  a  glorious  sight, 

This  valley,  that  mountain  hight. 

The  river  plunges  and  roars 
Like  the  loud  sea  on  its  shores 


WASHINGTON    SQUARE  2 19 

What  time  in  waves  enorm 
Breaks  the  gigantic  storm. 

The  wooded  mount  doth  climb 
To  a  thought  intense,  sublime. 

The  glory  of  all  I  feel; 

But  my  heart,  my  heart,  will  steal 

Down  the  journey  of  years, 

Through  the  lands  of  laughter  and  tears, 

Far  back  to  the  least  of  valleys 
Where  a  slow  brook  curves  and  dallies, 

Where  a  boy,  in  the  twilight  gleam, 
Walks  alone  with  his  dream. 

ON  THE  BAY 

THIS  watery  vague  how  vast !  This  misty  globe, 
Seen  from  this  center  where  the  ferry  plies, — 
It  plies,  but  seems  to  poise  in  middle  air, — 
Soft  gray  below  gray  heavens,  and  in  the  west 
A  rose-gray  memory  of  the  sunken  sun; 
And,  where  gray  water  touches  grayer  sky, 
A  band  of  darker  gray  prickt  out  with  lights  — 
A  diamond-twinkling  circlet  bounding  all; 
And  where  the  statue  looms,  a  quenchless  star; 
And  where  the  lighthouse,  a  red,  pulsing  flame; 
While  the  great  bridge  its  starry  diadem 
Lifts  through  the  gray,  itself  in  grayness  lost! 

WASHINGTON  SQUARE 

THIS  is  the  end  of  the  town  that  I  love  the  best. 
O,  lovely  the  hour  of  light  from  the  burning  west  — 


220  THE   GREAT  REMEMBRANCE 

Of  light  that  lingers  and  fades  in  the  shadowy  square 
Where  the  solemn  fountain  lifts  a  shaft  in  the  air 
To  catch  the  skyey  colors,  and  fling  them  down 
In  a  wild-wood  torrent  that  drowns  the  noise  of  the 

town. 

And  lovely  the  hour  of  the  still  and  dreamy  night 
When,  lifted  against  the  blue,  stands  the  arch  of  white 
With  one  clear  planet  above;  and  the  sickle  moon, 
In  curve  reversed  from  the  arch's  marble  round, 
Silvers  the  sapphire  sky.   Now  soon,  ah,. soon, 
Shall  the  city  square  be  turned  to  holy  ground, 
Through  the  light  of  the  moon  and  the  stars  and  the 

glowing  flower, — 
The  Cross  of  Light, —  that  looms  from  the  sacred  tower. 

THE  CITY 

O,  DEAR  is  the  song  of  the  pine 

When  the  wind  of  the  night-time  blows, 
And  dear  is  the  murmuring  river 

That  afar  through  my  childhood  flows; 
And  soft  is  the  raindrop's  beat 

And  the  fountain's  lyric  play, 
But  to  me  no  music  is  half  so  sweet 

As  the  thunder  of  Broadway! 

Stream  of  the  living  world 

Where  dash  the  billows  of  strife !  — 
One  plunge  in  the  mighty  torrent 

Is  a  year  of  tamer  life! 
City  of  glorious  days, 

Of  hope,  and  labor,  and  mirth, 
With  room,  and  to  spare,  on  thy  splendid  bays 

For  the  ships  of  all  the  earth! 


A   RHYME   OF   TYRINGHAM  221 

A  RHYME  OF  TYRINGHAM 

DOWN  in  the  meadow  and  up  on  the  hight 
The  breezes  are  blowing  the  willows  white. 
In  the  elms  and  maples  the  robins  call, 
And  the  great  black  crow  sails  over  all 

In  Tyringham,  Tyringham  Valley. 

The  river  winds  through  the  trees  and  the  brake 
And  the  meadow-grass  like  a  shining  snake; 
And  low  in  the  summer  and  loud  in  the  spring 
The  rapids  and  reaches  murmur  and  sing 

In  Tyringham,  Tyringham  Valley. 

In  the  shadowy  pools  the  trout  are  shy, 
So  creep  to  the  bank  and  cast  the  fly ! 
What  thrills  and  tremors  the  tense  cords  stir 
When  the  trout  it  strikes  with  a  tug  and  a  whir 
In  Tyringham,  Tyringham  Valley! 

At  dark  of  the  day  the  mist  spreads  white, 

Like  a  magic  lake  in  the  glimmering  light ; 

Or  the  winds  from  the  meadow  the  white  mists  blow, 

And  the  fireflies  glitter, —  a  sky  below, — 

In  Tyringham,  Tyringham  Valley. 

And  O,  in  the  windy  days  of  the  fall 
The  maples  and  elms  are  scarlet  all, 
And  the  world  that  was  green  is  gold  and  red, 
And  with  huskings  and  cider  they  're  late  to  bed 
In  Tyringham,  Tyringham  Valley. 

Now  squirrel  and  partridge  and  hawk  and  hare 
And  wildcat  and  woodchuck  and  fox  beware! 


222  THE   GREAT  REMEMBRANCE 

The  three  days'  hunt  is  waxing  warm 
For  the  Count  Up  Dinner  at  Riverside  Farm 
In  Tyringham,  Tyringham  Valley. 

The  meadow-ice  will  be  freezing  soon, 
And  then  for  a  skate  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 
So  pile  the  wood  on  the  hearth,  my  boy! 
Winter  is  coming!   I  wish  you  joy 
By  the  light  of  the  hearth  and  the  moon,  my  boy, 
In  Tyringham,  Tyringham  Valley. 

ELSIE 

"Do  you  love  me?"  Elsie  asked, 
And  her  rose-leaf  dimples  masked 
'Neath  a  pleading  look,  the  while 
On  her  pouting  lips  a  smile 
Hovered,  yet  was  out  of  sight 
Like  a  star  that's  hid  at  night 
By  a  filmy,  flying  cloud. 

"Do  you  love  me?"  scarce  aloud 
Lovely  Cousin  Elsie  said. 

"Why  no  answer,  Cousin  Ed? 
Do  you  hate  me,  then,  or  why 
From  Your  Highness  no  reply?" 
So  the  chiding  witch  ran  on: 

"In  a  moment  I'll  be  gone; 
Then  too  late,  Sir  No  Gallant ! 
Quick!   I'll  tell  my  precious  aunt 
That  you  love  me  not,"  she  cries, 

"That  you  hate  me  and  despise." 
Flash  the  great,  gray,  long-lashed  eyes; 
Half  in  earnest  now  the  girl; 
Down  the  pretty  corners  curl 


AH,    BE   NOT   FALSE  223 

Of  the  tiny  mouth,  and  lo! 
From  those  eyes  two  tearlets  flow ;  — 
Just  two  kisses,  and  they  go! 
Like  a  sunburst  after  showers, 
Like  white  light  upon  the  flowers, 
Now  again  the  dimples  show. 

But  she  could  not  understand 
Why  so  long  the  answer  waited 
For  the  loved  and  not  the  hated, 
While  he  held  that  little  hand, 
And  like  a  bird  she  sang  and  said, — • 
Half  in  earnest,  half  in  fun,  — 
"Do  you  love  me,  Solemn  One? 
Do  you  love  me,  Cousin  Ed? 
Do  you  love  me?    Do  you  love  me? 
Love  me,  love  me,  Cousin  Ed?" 

INDIRECTION 

I  SAW  not  the  leaf 

But  its  shadow  trembling,  trembling  down. 
I  faced  to  northward,  to  my  grief, 

When  from  the  southern  sky  a  crimson  meteor  lit  the 

star-dark  town. 
I  saw  not  naked  Love 
Lean  from  his  porphyry  throne  above 
And  touch  her  heart  to  flame, 
Yet  on  her  brow  I  saw  the  swift,  sweet,  virgin  shame. 

"AH,  BE  NOT  FALSE" 

AH,  be  not  false,  sweet  Splendor! 

Be  true,  be  good; 
Be  wise  as  thou  art  tender; 

Be  all  that  Beauty  should. 


224  THE   GREAT   REMEMBRANCE 

Not  lightly  be  thy  citadel  subdued; 

Not  ignobly,  not  untimely. 
Take  praise  in  solemn  mood; 

Take  love  sublimely. 


THE  ANSWER 

THROUGH  starry  space  two  angels  dreamed  their  flight, 
'Mid  worlds  and  thoughts  of  worlds,  through  day  and 
night. 

Then  one  spake  forth  whose  voice  was  like  the  flower 
That  blossoms  in  the  fragrant  midnight  hour. 
This  white-browed  angel  of  the  other  asked: 

"  Of  all  the  essences  that  ever  basked 
In  the  eternal  presence;  of  all  things, 
All  thoughts,  all  joys,  all  dreads,  all  sorrowings 
Amid  the  unimaginable  vast  — 
Being,  or  shall  be,  or  forever  past  — 
Profound  with  dark,  or  hid  in  endless  light — 
Which  of  all  these  most  deep  and  infinite?" 

Then  did  the  elder  speak,  the  while  he  turned 
On  him  who  asked  clear  eyes  that  slowly  burned 
The  spirit  through,  like  to  a  living  coal: 
"No  depth  there  is  so  deep  as  woman's  soul." 

HOW  DEATH  MAY  MAKE  A  MAN 

DEATH  is  a  sorry  plight, 

It  bringeth  unto  man 
End  of  all  delight. 
Yet  many  a  woeful  wight 

Only  dying  can 

Quit  him  like  a  man. 


CAME   TO   A   MASTER    OF    SONG  225 

Dawdling,  drawling,  silly, 

Maundering,  scarce  a  man; 

Driven  willy-nilly; 

When  he's  dying  will  he 
Run  as  once  he  ran, 
Or  quit  him  like  a  man? 

Vile  from  out  the  wrack 

Crawls  he  less  than  man; 

Cowering  in  his  track 

Beaten,  broken,  black; 

Curse  him  if  you  can  — 
Death  may  make  him  man. 

In  life  the  wretch  did  naught 

Worthy  of  a  man; 
Now  by  Death  he's  caught, 
What  a  change  is  wrought! 

Whom  the  world  did  ban 

Quits  life  like  a  man. 

Braced  stiff  against  the  wall, 

Behold,  at  last,  a  man. 
Lost  —  life  and  honor,  all ! 
At  Death's  quick  touch  and  call 

See,  the  craven  can 

Quit  him  like  a  man. 

"CAME  TO   A  MASTER  OF  SONG" 

CAME  to  a  master  of  song 

And  the  human  heart 
One  who  had  followed  him  long 

And  worshiped  his  art; 


226  THE   GREAT   REMEMBRANCE 

One  whom  the  poet's  singing 

Had  lured  from  death, 
Joy  to  the  crusht  soul  bringing 

And  heaven's  breath ; 

Came  to  him  once  in  an  hour 

Of  terror  and  stress, 
And  cried,  "  Thou  alone  hast  power 

To  save  me  and  bless; 
Thou  alone,  pure  heart  and  free, 

Canst  pluck  from  disaster, 
If  to  a  wretch  like  me 

Thou  wilt  stoop,  O  master!" 

Answered  the  bard  with  shame, 

And  sorrow  and  trembling: 
"Was  I  false,  was  my  song  to  blame? 

Was  my  art  dissembling? 
I  of  all  mortals  the  saddest, 

The  quickest  to  fall, 
And  song  of  mine  highest  and  gladdest 

Repentance  all!" 

BARDS 

SOME  from  books  resound  their  rhymes  — 
Set  them  ringing  with  a  faint, 
Sorrowful,  and  sweet,  and  quaint 
Memory  of  the  olden  times, 
Like  the  sound  of  evening  chimes. 

Some  go  wandering  on  their  way 
Through  the  forest,  past  the  herds, 
Laughing  maidens,  singing  birds; 

On  their  sylvan  lutes  they  play  — 

Danceth  by  the  lyric  Day! 


MERIDIAN  227 

Bards  there  be  the  deep  'sky  under 

Who  in  high,  authentic  verse 

Mysteries  and  moods  rehearse 
With  a  voice  like  Sinai's  thunder, 
Chanting  to  a  world  of  wonder. 

And  those  have  sung  whose  melody, 
Drawn  from  out  the  living  heart 
With  a  quick,  unfaltering  art, 
Hath  power  to  make  the  listener  cry: 
"God  in  heaven!  It  is  I." 


MERIDIAN 

HENCEFORTH  before  these  feet 
Sinks  the  downward  way; 
A  little  while  to  greet 
The  light  and  life  of  day, 
Then  night's  slow  fall 
Ends  all. 

Now  forward,  heart  elate, 
Tho'  steep  the  pathway  slope. 
Time  yet  for  love  and  hate, 
Joy,  and  joy's  comrade,  hope, 
Ere  night's  slow  fall 
Ends  all. 

Still  the  warm  sky  is  blue, 

No  fleck  the  sunlight  mars; 

'Twixt  hills  the  sea  gleams  through; 

With  twilight  come  the  stars; 

And  night's  slow  fall 

Ends  all. 


228  THE    GREAT  REMEMBRANCE 

In  the  cool-breathing  night 

The  starry  sky  is  deep. 

Still  on  through  glimmering  light 

Till  we  lie  down  to  sleep; 

Then  let  night's  fall 

End  all. 

EVENING  IN  TYRINGHAM  VALLEY 

WHAT  domes  and  pinnacles  of  mist  and  fire 

Are  builded  in  yon  spacious  realms  of  light 
All  silently,  as  did  the  walls  aspire 

Templing  the  ark  of  God  by  day  and  night! 
Noiseless  and  swift,  from  darkening  ridge  to  ridge, 

Through  purple  air  that  deepens  down  the  day, 
Over  the  valley  springs  a  shadowy  bridge. 

The  evening  star's  keen,  solitary  ray 
Makes  more  intense  the  silence,  and  the  glad, 

Unmelancholy,  restful,  twilight  gloom  — 
So  full  of  tenderness,  that  even  the  sad 

Remembrances  that  haunt  the  soul  take  bloom 
Like  that  on  yonder  mountain. 

Now  the  bars 

>    Of  sunset  all  burn  black;  the  day  doth  fail, 
And  the  skies  whiten  with  the  eternal  stars. 

O,  let  thy  spirit  stay  with  me,  sweet  vale! 

PART   III 
A  WEEK'S  CALENDAR 

I  —  NEW   YEAR 

EACH  New  Year  is  a  leaf  of  our  love's  rose; 
It  falls,  but  quick  another  rose-leaf  grows. 
So  is  the  flower  from  year  to  year  the  same, 
But  richer,  for  the  dead  leaves  feed  its  flame. 


A  WEEK'S  CALENDAR  229 

II  — A  NEW   SOUL 

To  see  the  rose  of  morning  slow  unfold 

Each  wondrous  petal  to  that  heart  of  gold; 

To  see  from  out  the  dark,  unknowing  night 

A  new  soul  dawn  with  such  undreamed-of  light, 

And  slowly  all  its  loveliness  and  splendor 

Pour  forth  as  stately  music  pours,  magnificently  tender! 

HI — "KEEP  PURE  THY  SOUL" 

KEEP  pure  thy  soul ! 

Then  shalt  thou  take  the  whole 

Of  delight; 

Then,  without  a  pang, 

Thine  shall  be  all  of  beauty  whereof  the  poet  sang  — 

The  perfume,  and  the  pageant,  the  melody,  the  mirth 

Of  the  golden  day,  and  the  starry  night; 

Of  heaven,  and  of  earth. 

O,  keep  pure  thy  soul! 

iv — "THY  MIND  is  LIKE  A  CRYSTAL  BROOK" 

THY  mind  is  like  a  crystal  brook 
Wherein  clean  creatures  live  at  ease, 
In  sun-bright  waves  or  shady  nook. 
Birds  sing  above  it, 
The  warm-breathed  cattle  love  it, 
It  doth  sweet  childhood  please. 

Accurst  be  he  by  whom  it  were  undone, 
Or  thing  or  thought  whose  presence 
The  birds  and  beasts  would  loathly  shun, 
Would  make  its  crystal  waters  foully  run, 
And  drive  sweet  childhood  from  its  pleasance. 


230  THE    GREAT   REMEMBRANCE 

V — "ONE   DEED   MAY   MAR   A   LIFE" 

ONE  deed  may  mar  a  life, 

And  one  can  make  it; 
Hold  firm  thy  will  for  strife, 

Lest  a  quick  blow  break  it! 
Even  now  from  far  on  viewless  wing 
Hither  speeds  the  nameless  thing 

Shall  put  thy  spirit  to  the  test. 
Haply  or  e'er  yon  sinking  sun 

Shall  drop  behind  the  purple  West 
All  will  be  lost  —  or  won ! 

VI  —  THE   UNKNOWN 

How  strange  to  look  upon  the  life  beyond 

Our  human  cognizance  with  so  deep  awe 

And  haunting  dread ;  a  sense  as  of  remorse, 

A  looking-for  of  judgment,  a  great  weight 

Of  things  unknown  to  happen !  We  who  live 

Blindly  from  hour  to  hour  in  very  midst 

Of  mysteries;  of  shapeless,  changing  glooms; 

Of  nameless  terrors;  issues  vast  and  black; 

Of  airy  whims,  slight  fantasies,  and  flights 

That  lead  to  unimaginable  woe: 

The  unweighed  word  cloying  the  life  of  love; 

One  clod  of  earth  outblotting  all  the  stars; 

Some  secret,  dark  inheritance  of  will, 

And  the  scared  soul  plunges  to  conscious  doom ! 

Thou  who  hast  wisdom,  fear  not  Death,  but  Life ! 

VII  —  IRREVOCABLE 

WOULD  the  gods  might  give 
Another  field  for  human  strife; 
Man  must  live  one  life 


SONGS  231 

Ere  he  learns  to  live. 

—  Ah,  friend,  in  thy  deep  grave, 

What  now  can  change,  what  now  can  save? 

PART   IV 

SONGS 


BECAUSE  the  rose  must  fade, 
Shall  I  not  love  the  rose  ? 

Because  the  summer  shade 
Passes  when  winter  blows, 

Shall  I  not  rest  me  there 

In  the  cool  air? 

Because  the  sunset  sky 

Makes  music  in  my  soul, 

Only  to  fail  and  die, 

Shall  I  not  take  the  whole 

Of  beauty  that  it  gives 

While  yet  it  lives? 

Because  the  sweet  of  youth 
Doth  vanish  all  too  soon, 

Shall  I  forget,  forsooth, 

To  learn  its  lingering  tune; 

My  joy  to  memorize 

In  those  young  eyes? 

If,  like  the  summer  flower 

That  blooms  —  a  fragrant  death. 
Keen  music  hath  no  power 

To  live  beyond  its  breath, 


232  THE    GREAT   REMEMBRANCE 

Then  of  this  flood  of  song 
Let  me  drink  long! 


Ah,  yes,  because  the  rose 

Fades  like  the  sunset  skies; 

Because  rude  winter  blows 

All  bare,  and  music  dies  — 

Therefore,  now  is  to  me 

Eternity! 


FADES  the  rose;  the  year  grows  old; 
The  tale  is  told; 
Youth  doth  depart  — 
Only  stays  the  heart. 

Ah,  no!  if  stays  the  heart, 

Youth  can  ne'er  depart, 

Nor  the  sweet  tale  be  told  — 

Never  the  rose  fade,  nor  the  year  grow  old. 

THE   WINTRY   HEART 

ON  the  sad  winter  trees 

The  dead,  red  leaves  remain, 
Tho'  to  and  fro  the  bleak  winds  blow, 

And  falls  the  freezing  rain. 

So  to  the  wintry  heart 

Clings  color  of  the  past, 
While  through  dead  leaves  shudders  and  grieves 

The  melancholy  blast. 


SONGS  233 

HAST  THOU  HEARD  THE  NIGHTINGALE? 

YES,  I  have  heard  the  nightingale. 

As  in  dark  woods  I  wandered, 

And  dreamed  and  pondered, 

A  voice  past  by  all  fire 

And  passion  and  desire; 

I  rather  felt  than  heard 

The  song  of  that  lone  bird; 
Yes,  I  have  heard  the  nightingale. 

Yes,  I  have  heard  the  nightingale. - 

I  heard  it,  and  I  followed; 

The  warm  night  swallowed 

This  soul  and  body  of  mine, 

As  burning  thirst  takes  wine, 

While  on  and  on  I  prest 

Close  to  that  singing  breast; 
Yes,  I  have  heard  the  nightingale. 

Yes,  I  have  heard  the  nightingale. 
Well  doth  each  throbbing  ember 
The  flame  remember; 
And  I,  how  quick  that  sound 
Turned  drops  from  a  deep  wound! 
How  this  heart  was  the  thorn 
Which  pierced  that  breast  forlorn! 

Yes,  I  have  heard  the  nightingale. 

"IN  THAT  DREAD,  DREAMED-OF  HOUR" 

IN  that  dread,  dreamed-of  hour 

When  in  her  heart  love's  rose  flames  into  flower, 
T  is  never,  never  yes, 

But  no,  no,  no,  whate'er  the  startled  eyes  confess. 


234  THE   GREAT   REMEMBRANCE 

Her  frail  denial  at  last 

Swept  clean  away  like  burnt  leaves  in  the  blast, 
No  longer  no,  no,  no! 

But  yes,  forever  yes,  while  love's  red  rose  doth  blow. 

"ROSE-DARK  THE  SOLEMN  SUNSET" 

ROSE-DARK  the  solemn  sunset 
That  holds  my  thought  of  thee; 

With  one  star  in  the  heavens 
And  one  star  in  the  sea. 

On  high  no  lamp  is  lighted, 
Nor  where  the  long  waves  flow, 

Save  the  one  star  of  evening 
And  the  shadow  star  below. 

Light  of  my  Life!  the  darkness 
Comes  with  the  twilight  dream; 

Thou  art  the  bright  star  shining, 
I  but  the  shadowy  gleam. 

"WINDS   TO   THE   SILENT   MORN" 

WINDS  to  the  silent  morn; 

Waves  to  the  ocean; 
Voice  to  the  song  unsung; 

Song  to  emotion; 
Light  to  the  golden  flower; 

Bird  to  the  tree; 
Love  to  the  heart  of  love, 

And  I  to  thee! 

Dawn  to  the  darkened  world; 
Hope  to  the  morrow; 


SONGS  235 

Music  to  passion;  and 

Weeping  to  sorrow; 
Love  to  the  heart  that  longs; 

Moon  to  the  sea; 
Heaven  to  the  earthborn  soul, 

And  thou  to  me. 

THE   UNRETURNING 
I 

SILENT,  silent  are  the  unreturning! 

What  tho'  word  may  reach  to  them,  and  yearning, 

Never  through  the  stillness  of  the  night, 

Never  in  the  daytime  or  the  dark 

Comes  the  long-lost  voice,  or  smile  of  light; 

Lifts  no  hand  from  sea  or  sunken  bark. 

Silent,  silent  are  the  unreturning! 

ii 

Silent,  silent  are  the  unreturning! 
Silent  they?  —  or  are  we  undiscerning? 
Child,  my  child!  is  this  thy  answering  voice 
Murmuring  far  down  the  mountain  lone? 
Evening's  smile,  that  whispers:  "Heart,  rejoice!" 
Mother  mine !  is  this  thy  very  own  ? 
Nay!  nay!    Silent  are  the  unreturning; 
Silent,  silent  are  the  unreturning ! 

TWO   YEARS 

O,  THAT  was  the  year  the  last  of  those  before  thee; 

All  my  world  till  then  but  dark  before  the  dawn. 
If  then  I  had  died,  O,  never  had  I  known  thee, 
Never  had  beheld  thee;  I  who  won,  who  own  thee; 
Who  chose  thee,  who  sing  thee,  crown  thee,  and  adore 
thee; 

O,  death  it  were  indeed  to  die  before  that  dawn! 


236  THE    GREAT   REMEMBRANCE 

This  was  the  year  when  first  I  did  behold  thee, 

Thou  who  on  my  darkness  dawned  with  lyric  light. 
This  the  golden  hour  when  first  thy  lover  found  thee, 
Followed  and  beguiled  thee,  and  with  his  singing  bound 

thee; 
When  all  the  world  with  music  rang  to  drown  thee  and 

enfold  thee — 

Thou  who  turned  the  darkness  to  song,  and  love,  and 
light! 


IN  PALESTINE 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


IN  PALESTINE 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 

PART    I 

IN  PALESTINE 

AH,  no!  that  sacred  land 
Where  fell  the  wearied  feet  of  the  lone  Christ 
Robs  not  the  soul  of  faith.   I  shall  set  down 
The  thought  was  in  my  heart.    If  that  hath  lost 
Aught  of  its  child-belief,  't  was  long  ago, 
Not  there  in  Palestine ;  and  if  't  were  lost, 
He  were  a  coward  who  should  fear  to  lose 
A  blind,  hereditary,  thoughtless  faith  — 
Comfort  of  fearful  minds,  a  straw  to  catch  at 
On  the  deep-gulfed  and  tempest-driven  sea. 

Full  well  I  know  how  shallow  spirits  lack 
The  essence,  flinging  from  them  but  the  form. 
I  have  seen  souls  lead  barren  lives  and  curst,  — 
Bereft  of  light,  and  all  the  grace  of  life,  — 
Because  for  them  the  inner  truth  was  lost 
In  the  frail  symbol  —  hated,  shattered,  spurned. 

But  faith  that  lives  forever  is  not  bound 
To  any  outward  semblance,  any  scheme 
Fine-wrought  of  human  wonder,  or  self-love, 
Or  the  base  fear  of  never-ending  pain. 
True  faith  doth  face  the  blackness  of  despair, 


240  IN   PALESTINE 

Blank  faithlessness  itself;  bravely  it  holds 
To  duty  unrewarded  and  unshared; 
It  loves  where  all  is  loveless;  it  endures 
In  the  long  passion  of  the  soul  for  God. 

'T  was  thus  I  thought :  - 

At  last  the  very  land  whose  breath  he  breathed, 
The  very  hills  his  bruised  feet  did  climb ! 
This  is  his  Olivet ;  on  this  Mount  he  stood, 
As  I  do  now,  and  with  this  same  surprise 
Straight  down  into  the  startling  blue  he  gazed 
Of  the  fair,  turquoise  mid-sea  of  the  plain. 
That  long,  straight,  misty,  dream-like,  violet  wall 
Of  Moab  —  lo,  how  close  it  looms !    The  same 
Quick  human  wonder  struck  his  holy  vision. 
About  these  feet  the  flowers  he  knew  so  well. 
Back  where  the  city's  shadow  slowly  climbs 
There  is  a  wood  of  olives  gaunt  and  gray, 
And  centuries  old;  it  holds  the  name  it  bore 
That  night  of  agony  and  bloody  sweat. 

I  tell  you  when  I  looked  upon  these  fields 
And  stony  valleys,  —  through  the  purple  veil 
Of  twilight,  or  what  time  the  Orient  sun 
Made  shining  jewels  of  the  barren  rocks,  — 
Something  within  me  trembled;  for  I  said: 
This  picture  once  was  mirrored  in  his  eyes; 
This  sky,  that  lake,  those  hills,  this  loveliness, 
To  him  familiar  were;  this  is  the  way 
To  Bethany;  the  red  anemones 
Along  yon  wandering  path  mark  the  steep  road 
To  green-embowered  Jordan.   All  is  his: 
These  leprous  outcasts  pleading  piteously; 
This  troubled  country,  —  troubled  then  as  now, 


IN  PALESTINE  241 

And  wild  and  bloody,  —  this  is  his  own  land. 
On  such  a  day,  girdled  by  these  same  hills, 
Prest  by  this  dark-browed,  sullen,  Orient  crowd, 
On  yonder  mount,  spotted  with  crimson  blooms, 
He  closed  his  eyes,  in  that  dark  tragedy 
Which  mortal  spirit  never  dared  to  sound. 
O  God !  I  saw  those  eyes  in  every  throng. 

Was  he  divine,  and  maker  of  all  worlds,  — 
The  Godhead  veiled  in  suffering,  for  our  sins,  — 
An  unimagined  splendor  poured  on  earth 
In  sacrifice  supreme,  —  this  was  a  scene 
Fit  for  the  tears  of  angels  and  all  men. 
If  he  was  man  —  a  passionate  human  heart, 
Like  unto  ours,  but  with  intenser  fire, 
And  whiter  from  the  deep  and  central  glow; 
Who  loved  all  men  as  never  man  before, 
Who  felt  as  never  mortal  all  the  weight 
Of  this  world's  sorrow,  and  whose  sinless  hands 
Upstretched  in  prayer  did  seem,  indeed,  to  clutch 
The  hand  divine;  if  he  was  man,  yet  dreamed 
That  the  Ineffable  through  him  had  power, — 
Even  through  his  touch, —  to  scatter  human  pain 
(Setting  the  eternal  seal  on  his  high  hope 
And  promised  kingdom);  was  he  only  man, 
Thus,  thus  to  aspire,  and  thus  at  last  to  fall ! 
Such  anguish !  such  betrayal !   Who  could  paint 
That  tragedy !  one  human,  piteous  cry  — 
"Forsaken!"  —  and  black  death!   If  he  was  God, 
'T  was  for  an  instant  only,  his  despair; 
Or  was  he  man,  and  there  is  life  beyond, 
And,  soon  or  late,  the  good  rewarded  are, 
Then,  too,  is  recompense. 


242  IN   PALESTINE 

But  was  he  man, 

And  death  ends  all;  then  was  that  tortured  death 
On  Calvary  a  thing  to  make  the  pulse 
Of  memory  quail  and  stop. 

The  blackest  thought 

The  human  brain  may  harbor  comes  that  way. 
Face  that,  —  face  all,  —  yet  lose  not  hope  nor  heart! 
One  perfect  moment  in  the  life  of  love, 
One  deed  wherein  the  soul  unselfed  gleams  forth, 
These  can  outmatch  all  ill,  all  doubt,  all  fear, 
And  through  the  encompassing  burden  of  the  world 
Burn  swift  the  spirit's  pathway  to  its  God. 

THE  ANGER  OF  CHRIST 

ON  the  day  that  Christ  ascended 

To  Jerusalem, 
Singing  multitudes  attended, 
And  the  very  heavens  were  rended 

With  the  shout  of  them. 

Chanted  they  a  sacred  ditty, 

Every  heart  elate; 
But  he  wept  in  brooding  pity, 
Then  went  in  the  holy  city 

By  the  Golden  Gate. 

In  the  temple,  lo!  what  lightning 

Makes  unseemly  rout ! 
He  in  anger,  sudden,  frightening, 
Drives  with  scorn  and  scourge  the  whitening 
Money-changers  out. 


UNIV 

THE   BIRDS    OF   BETHLEHEM  243 

By  the  way  that  Christ  descended 

From  Mount  Olivet, 
I,  a  lonely  pilgrim,  wended, 
On  the  day  his  entry  splendid 

Is  remembered  yet. 

And  I  thought :  If  he,  returning 

On  this  high  festival, 

Here  should  haste  with  love  and  yearning, 
Where  would  now  his  fearful,  burning 

Anger  flash  and  fall? 

In  the  very  house  they  builded 

To  his  saving  name, 
'Mid  their  altars,  gemmed  and  gilded, 
Would  his  scourge  and  scorn  be  wielded, 

His  fierce  lightning  flame. 

Once  again,  O  Man  of  Wonder, 

Let  thy  voice  be  heard! 
Speak  as  with  a  sound  of  thunder; 
Drive  the  false  thy  roof  from  under; 

Teach  thy  priests  thy  word. 

THE  BIRDS  OF  BETHLEHEM 

I  HEARD  the  bells  of  Bethlehem  ring  — 
Their  voice  was  sweeter  than  the  priests'; 

I  heard  the  birds  of  Bethlehem  sing 
Unbidden  in  the  churchly  feasts. 

They  clung  and  sung  on  the  swinging  chain 

High  in  the  dim  and  incensed  air; 
The  priests,  with  repetitions  vain, 

Chanted  a  never-ending  prayer. 


244  IN   PALESTINE 

So  bell  and  bird  and  priest  I  heard, 
But  voice  of  bird  was  most  to  me; 

It  had  no  ritual,  no  word, 

And  yet  it  sounded  true  and  free. 

I  thought  Child  Jesus,  were  he  there, 
Would  like  the  singing  birds  the  best, 

And  clutch  his  little  hands  in  air 
And  smile  upon  his  mother's  breast. 

NOEL 

STAR-DUST  and  vaporous  light,  — 
The  mist  of  worlds  unborn,  — 

A  shuddering  in  the  awful  night 
Of  winds  that  bring  the  morn. 

Now  comes  the  dawn:  the  circling  earth; 

Creatures  that  fly  and  crawl ; 
And  Man,  that  last,  imperial  birth; 

And  Christ,  the  flower  of  all. 

"THE  SUPPER  AT  EMMAUS" 

WISE  Rembrandt !  thou  couldst  paint,  and  thou  alone, 
Eyes  that  had  seen  what  never  human  eyes 
Before  had  looked  on;  him  that  late  had  past 
Onward  and  back  through  gates  of  Death  and  Life. 

O  human  face  where  the  celestial  gleam 

Lingers!   O,  still  to  thee  the  eyes  of  men 

Turn  with  deep,  questioning  worship;  seeing  there, 

As  in  a  mirror,  the  Eternal  Light 

Caught  from  the  shining  of  the  central  Soul 

Whence  came  all  worlds,  and  whither  shall  return. 


THE  PARTHENON   BY   MOONLIGHT         245 

THE  DOUBTER 

THOU  Christ,  my  soul  is  hurt  and  bruised! 

With  words  the  scholars  wear  me  out; 
My  brain  o'erwearied  and  confused, 

Thee,  and  myself,  and  all  I  doubt. 

And  must  I  back  to  darkness  go 
Because  I  cannot  say  their  creed? 

I  know  not  what  I  think;  I  know 
Only  that  thou  art  what  I  need. 

THE  PARTHENON  BY  MOONLIGHT 


THIS  is  an  island  of  the  golden  Past 

Uplifted  in  the  tranquil  sea  of  night. 
In  the  white  splendor  how  the  heart  beats  fast, 

When  climbs  the  pilgrim  to  this  gleaming  hight; 
As  might  a  soul,  new-born,  its  wondering  way 

Take  through  the  gates  of  pearl  and  up  the  stair 
Into  the  precincts  of  celestial  day, 

So  to  this  shrine  my  worshiping  feet  did  fare. 


But  look !  what  tragic  waste !   Is  Time  so  lavish 

Of  dear  perfection  thus  to  see  it  spilled? 
'T  was  worth  an  empire ;  —  now  behold  the  ravish 

That  laid  it  low.   The  soaring  plain  is  filled 
With  the  wide-scattered  letters  of  one  word 

Of  loveliness  that  nevermore  was  spoken; 
Nor  ever  shall  its  like  again  be  heard: 

Not  dead  is  art  —  but  that  high  charm  is  broken. 


246  IN  PALESTINE 

III 

Now  moonlight  builds  with  swift  and  mystic  art 

And  makes  the  ruin  whole  —  and  yet  not  whole ; 
But  exquisite,  tho'  crusht  and  torn  apart. 

Back  to  the  temple  steals  its  living  soul 
In  the  star-silent  night;  it  comes  all  pale  — 

A  spirit  breathing  beauty  and  delight, 
And  yet  how  stricken !   Hark !   I  hear  it  wail 

Self-sorrowful,  while  every  wound  bleeds  white. 

IV 

And  tho'  more  sad  than  is  the  nightingale 

That  mourns  in  Lykabettos'  fragrant  pine, 
That  soul  to  mine  brings  solace;  nor  shall  fail 

To  heal  the  heart  of  man  while  still  doth  shine 
Yon  planet,  doubly  bright  in  this  deep  blue; 

Yon  moon  that  brims  with  fire  these  violet  hills: 
For  beauty  is  of  God;  and  God  is  true, 

And  with  His  strength  the  soul  of  mortal  fills. 

THE   OTTOMAN   EMPIRE 

LET  fall  the  ruin  propt  by  Europe's  hands! 

Its  tottering  walls  are  but  a  nest  of  crime; 
Slayers  and  ravishers  in  licensed  bands 

Swarm  darkly  forth  to  shame  the  face  of  Time. 

False,  imbecile,  and  cruel;  kept  in  place 
Not  by  its  natural  force,  but  by  the  fears 

Of  foes,  scared  each  of  each;  even  by  the  grace 
Of  rivals  —  not  blood-guiltless  all  these  years ! 

Ay,  let  the  ruin  fall,  and  from  its  stones 
Rebuild  a  civic  temple  pure  and  fair; 

Where  freedom  is  not  alien;  where  the  groans 
Of  dying  and  ravished  burden  not  the  air! 
1896. 


KARNAK  247 

KARNAK 


OF  all  earth's  shrines  this  is  the  mightiest, 

And  none  is  elder.   Pylon,  obelisk, 
Column  enormous  —  seek  or  east  or  west, 

No  temple  like  to  Karnak  'neath  the  disk 
Of  the  far-searching  sun.  Since  the  first  stone 

Here  lifted  to  the  heavens  its  dumb  appeal, 
Empires  and  races  to  the  dread  unknown 

Have   past  — gods   great  and   small   'neath  Time's 

slow  wheel 

Have  fallen  and  been  crusht ;  —  the  earth  hath  shaken 
Ruin  on  ruin  —  desolate,  dead,  forsaken. 

ii 

Since  first  these  stones  were  laid,  the  solid  world, 

Ay,  this  whole,  visible,  infinite  universe, 
Hath  shifted  on  its  base;  suns  have  been  hurled 

From  heaven;  the  ever-circling  spheres  rehearse 
A  music  new  to  men.   Yet  still  doth  run 

This  river,  throbbing  life  through  all  its  lands; 
Those  desert  mountains  lifted  to  the  sun 

Live  as  of  old;  and  these  devouring  sands; 
And,  under  the  changing  heavens,  amazed,  apart  — 
Still,  still  the  same  the  insatiate  human  heart. 

in 

And  Thou,  Eternal,  Thou  art  still  the  same; 

Thou  unto  whom  the  first,  sad,  questioning  face 
Yearned,  for  a  refuge  from  the  insentient  frame 

Of  matter  that  doth  grind  us;  seeking  grace 
From  powers  imagined  'gainst  the  powers  we  know;  — 

Some  charm  to  avert  the  whirlwind,  bring  the  tide 


248  IN  PALESTINE 

And  harvest;  turn  the  blind  and  awful  flow 

Of  nature !  Thou  Eternal  dost  abide 
Silent  forever,  like  the  unanswering  skies 
That  send  but  empty  echoes  to  men's  cries! 

IV 

But  not  in  temples  now  man's  only  hope, 

Nor  secret  ministries  of  king  and  priest 
Chanting  beyond  dark  gates  that  never  ope 

Unto  the  people;  now  no  horned  beast 
Looms  'twixt  the  worshiper  and  the  adored, 

Nor  any  creature's  likeness;  He  remains 
Unknown  as  erst;  yet  Him  whom  we  call  Lord 

Is  worshiped  in  the  fields  as  in  the  fanes. 
We  have  but  faith;  we  know  not;  yet  He  seems 
More  near,  more  human,  in  our  passionate  dreams. 


We  know  not,  yet  the  centuries  in  their  course 

Have  built  an  image  in  the  mind  of  man; 
We  have  but  faith,  yet  that  mysterious  Force 

Less  darkly  threatens,  looms  a  friendlier  plan. 
Far  off  the  singing  of  the  morning  stars, 

Yet  age  by  age  such  words  of  light  are  spoken 
(Like  whispered  messages  through  prison  bars), 

Sometimes  men  deem  the  dreadful  silence  broken, 
And  hearts  that  late  were  famished  and  af eared 
Leap  to  the  Voice  and  onward  fare  well  cheered. 

VI 

Cheered  for  a  little  season,  but  the  morrow 
Brings  the  old  heartbreak;  gone  is  all  the  gain; 

Tho'  the  bowed  soul  be  schooled  to  its  own  sorrow, 
Ah,  heaven!  to  feel  earth's  heritage  of  pain,  — 


ANGELO,    THOU  ART  THE   MASTER        249 

The  unescapable  anguish  of  mankind, 

That  blots  out  natural  joy!  —  O  human  soul, 

Learn  Courage,  tho'  the  lightning  strike  thee  blind; 
Let  Duty  be  thy  worship;  Love,  thy  goal: 

Love,  Duty,  Courage  —  these  make  thou  thy  own, 

Till  from  the  unknown  we  pass  into  the  unknown. 

"ANGELO,   THOU  ART  THE   MASTER" 


ANGELO,  thou  art  the  master;  for  thou  in  thy  art 
Compassed  the  body,  the  soul;  the  form  and  the  heart. 
Knew  where  the  roots  of  the  spirit  are  buried  and  twined, 
The  springs  and  the  rocks  that  shall  suckle  —  and  tor 
ture  and  bind.          , 

Large  was  thy  soul  like  the  soul  of  a  god  that  creates  — 
Converse  it  held  with  the  stars  and  the  imminent  Fates. 
Knewest  thou  —  Art  is  but  Beauty  perceived  and  exprest, 
And  the  pang  of  that  Beauty  had  entered  and  melted  thy 

breast. 

Here  by  thy  Slave,  again,  after  long  years  do  I  bow  — 
Angelo,  thou  art  the  master,  yea,  thou,  and  but  thou. 

Here  is  the  crown  of  all  beauty  that  lives  in  the  world; 
Spirit  and  flesh  breathing  forth  from  these  lips  that  are 

curled 

With  sweetness  and  sorrow  as  never,  O,  never  before, 
And  from  eyes  that  are  heavy  with  light,  and  shall  weep 

nevermore ; 

And  lo,  at  the  base  of  the  statue,  that  monster  of  shape  — 
Thorn  of  the  blossom  of  life,  mocking  face  of  the  ape. 
So  cometh  morn  from  the  shadow  and  murk  of  the  night ; 
From  pain  springeth  joy,  and  from  flame  the  keen  beauty 

of  light. 


250  IN  PALESTINE 

II 

Beauty!  —  O,  well  for  the  hearts    that  bow  down  and 

adore  her: 
Heart  of  mine,  hold  thou  in  all  the  world  nothing  before 

her. 

All  the  fair  universe  now  to  her  feet  that  is  clinging 
Out  of  the  womb  of  her  leapt  with  the  dawn,  and  the 

singing 
Of  stars.    O  thou  Beautiful !  —  thee  do  I  worship  and 

praise 
In  the  dark  where  thy  lamps  are;  again  in  thy  glory  of 

days, 
Whose  end  and  beginning  thou  blessest  with  piercing 

delight 
Of  splendors  outspread  on  the  edge  of  the  robe  of  the 

night. 

Ah,  that  sweetness  is  sent  not  to  him  whose  dull  spirit 

would  rest 
In  the  bliss  of  it;  no,  not  the  goal,  but  the  passion  and 

quest; 
Not  the  vale,  but  the   desert.    O,  never  soft  airs  shall 

awake 
Thy  Soul  to  the  soul  of  all  Beauty,  all  heaven,  and  all 

wonder ; 
The  summons  that  comes  to  thee,  mortal,  thy  spirit  to 

shake, 
Shall  be  the  loud  clarion's  call  and  the  voices  of  thunder. 

A  WINTER  TWILIGHT  IN     PROVENCE 

A  STRANGER  in  a  far  and  ancient  land, 

At  evening-light  I  wander.   Shade  on  shade 

The  mountain  valleys  darken,  and  the  plain 


A   WINTER   TWILIGHT   IN   PROVENCE      251 

Grows  dim  beneath  a  chill  and  iron  sky. 

The  trees  of  peace  take  the  last  gray  of  day  — 

Day  that  shone  soft  on  olives,  misty-green, 

And  aisles  of  wind-forbidding  cypresses, 

And  long,  white  roads,  whitely  with  plane-trees  lined, 

And  farms  content,  and  happy  villages  — 

A  land  that  lies  close  in  the  very  heart 

Of  history,  and  brave,  and  free,  and  gay; 

In  all  its  song  lingering  one  tone  of  pain. 

But  now  the  wintry  twilight  silent  falls, 
And  ghosts  of  other  days  stalk  the  lone  fields; 
While  through  yon  sunk  and  immemorial  road, 
Rock-furrowed,  rough,  and  like  a  torrent's  bed, 
Far-stretching  into  night  'twixt  twilight  farms, 
I  see  in  dream  the  unhistoried  armies  pass, 
With  barbarous  banners  trailing  'gainst  the  gloom; 
Then,  in  a  thought's  flash  (centuries  consumed), 
In  this  deep  path  a  fierce  and  refluent  wave 
Brims  the  confined  and  onward-pressing  march 
With  standards  slantwise  borne;  so,  to  the  mind, 
The  all-conquering  eagle  northward  takes  its  flight, 
And  one  stern  empire  widens  o'er  the  world. 

There  looms  the  arch  of  war  where  once,  long  gone, 
In  these  still  fields,  against  those  thymy  slopes, 
An  alien  city  reared  imperial  towers: 
See  sculptured  conqueror,  and  slave  in  chains 
Mournful  a  myriad  years;  and  near  the  arch 
The  heaven-climbing,  templed  monument 
Embossed  with  horse  and  furious  warrior! 
Millenniums  have  sped  since  those  grim  wars 
Here  grimly  carved,  the  wonder  of  the  churl,  — 
The  very  language  dead  those  warriors  cried. 
Deepens  the  dusk,  and  on  the  neighboring  hight 
A  rock-hewn  palace  cuts  the  edge  of  day 


252  IN  PALESTINE 

In  giant  ruin  stark  against  the  sky: 

Ah,  misery!  I  know  its  piteous  tale 

Of  armed  injustice;  monstrous,  treacherous  force. 

Deepens  the  dusk,  and  the  enormous  towers, 

Still  lording  o'er  a  living  city  near, 

Are  lost  to  sight;  but  not  to  thought  are  lost 

A  hundred  stories  of  the  old-time  curse  — 

War  and  its  ravagings.   Deepens  the  dusk 

On  westward  mountains  black  with  olden  crime 

And  steeped  in  blood  spilled  in  the  blessed  name 

Of  him  the  Roman  soldiers  crucified  — 

The  Prince  of  Peace.   Deepens  the  dusk,  and  all 

The  nearer  landscape  glimmers  into  dark, 

And  naught  shows  clear  save  yonder  wayside  cross 

Against  the  lurid  west  whose  dying  gleam 

Of  ghastly  sunlight  frights  the  brooding  soul. 

Dear  country  mine !  far  in  that  viewless  west, 
And  ocean-warded,  strife  thou  too  hast  known ; 
But  may  thy  sun  hereafter  bloodless  shine, 
And  may  thy  way  be  onward  without  wrath, 
And  upward  on  no  carcass  of  the  slain ; 
And  if  thou  smitest,  let  it  be  for  peace 
And  justice  —  not  in  hate,  or  pride,  or  lust 
Of  empire.   May'st  thou  ever  be,  O  land ! 
Noble  and  pure  as  thou  art  free  and  strong: 
So  shalt  thou  lift  a  light  for  all  the  world 
And  for  all  time,  and  bring  the  Age  of  Peace. 

ST.-REMY  DE  PROVENCE,  January,  1896. 


HOW   TO    THE   SINGER    COMES   THE    SONG      253 


PART   II 

"THE   POET'S   DAY" 

THE  poet's  day  is  different  from  another, 

Tho'  he  doth  count  each  man  his  own  heart's  brother. 

So  crystal-clear  the  air  that  he  looks  through, 

It  gives  each  color  an  intenser  hue; 

Each  bush  doth  burn,  and  every  flower  flame; 

The  stars  are  sighing;  silence  breathes  a  name. 

The  world  wherein  he  wanders,  dreams,  and  sings 

Thrills  with  the  beating  of  invisible  wings; 

And  all  day  long  he  hears  from  hidden  birds 

The  low,  melodious  pour  of  musicked  words. 

"HOW  TO  THE  SINGER  COMES   THE 
SONG?" 


How  to  the  singer  comes  the  song? 

At  times  a  joy,  alone ; 

A  wordless  tone 

Caught  from  the  crystal  gleam  of  ice-bound  trees; 

Or  from  the  violet-perfumed  breeze; 

Or  the  sharp  smell  of  seas 

In  sunlight  glittering  many  an  emerald  mile; 

Or  the  keen  memory  of  a  love-lit  smile. 

ii 

Thus  to  the  singer  comes  the  song: 

Gazing  at  crimson  skies 

Where  burns  and  dies 

On  day's  wide  hearth  the  calm  celestial  fire, 

The  poet  with  a  wild  desire 


254  IN  PALESTINE 

Strikes  the  impassioned  lyre, 

Takes  into  tuned  sound  the  flaming  sight 

And  ushers  with  new  song  the  ancient  night. 

in 

How  to  the  singer  comes  the  song? 

Bowed  down  by  ill  and  sorrow 

On  every  morrow  — 

The  unworded  pain  breaks  forth  in  heavenly  singing; 

Not  all  too  late  dear  solace  bringing 

To  broken  spirits  winging 

Through  mortal  anguish  to  the  unknown  rest  — 

A  lyric  balm  for  every  wounded  breast. 

IV 

How  to  the  singer  comes  the  song? 

How  to  the  summer  fields 

Come  flowers?  How  yields 

Darkness  to  happy  dawn?  How  doth  the  night 

Bring  stars?   O,  how  do  love  and  light 

Leap  at  the  sound  and  sight 

Of  her  who  makes  this  dark  world  seem  less  wrong  — 

Life  of  his  life,  and  soul  of  all  his  song! 

"LIKE  THE  BRIGHT  PICTURE" 

LIKE  the  bright  picture  ere  the  lamp  is  lit, 

Or  silent  page  whereon  keen  notes  are  writ; 

So  was  my  love,  all  vacant,  all  unsaid, 

Ere  she  the  lamp  did  light,  ere  she  the  music  read. 

REMEMBRANCE   OF  BEAUTY 

LOVE'S  look  finds  loveliness  in  all  the  world : 
Ah,  who  shall  say  —  This,  this  is  loveliest ! 


MUSIC   IN   SOLITUDE  255 

Forgetting  that  pure  beauty  is  impearled 
A  thousand  perfect  ways,  and  none  is  best. 

Sometimes  I  deem  that  dawn  upon  the  ocean 
Thrills  deeper  than  all  else;  but,  sudden,  there, 
With  serpent  gleam  and  hue,  and  fixed  motion, 
Niagara  curves  its  scimitar  in  air. 

So  when  I  dream  of  sunset,  oft  I  gaze 
Again  from  Bellosguardo's  misty  hight, 
Or  memory  ends  once  more  one  day  of  days  — 

Carrara's  mountains  purpling  into  night. 
There  is  no  loveliest,  dear  Love,  but  thee  — 
Through  whom  all  loveliness  I  breathe  and  see. 

MUSIC  IN  SOLITUDE 


IN  this  valley  far  and  lonely 
Birds  sang  only, 
And  the  brook, 
And  the  rain  upon  the  leaves; 
And  all  night  long  beneath  the  eaves 
(While  with  soft  breathings  slept  the  housed  cattle) 
The  hived  bees 

Made  music  like  the  murmuring  seas; 
From  lichened  wall,  from  many  a  leafy  nook, 
The  chipmunk  sounded  shrill  his  tiny  rattle; 
Through  the  warm  day  boomed  low  the  droning  flies, 
And  the  huge  mountain  shook 
With  the  organ  of  the  skies. 

II 

Dear  these  songs  unto  my  heart ; 
But  the  spirit  longs  for  art, 
Longs  for  music  that  is  born 


256  IN   PALESTINE 

Of  the  human  soul  forlorn, 

Or  the  beating  heart  of  pleasure. 

Thou,  sweet  girl,  didst  bring  this  boon 

Without  stint  or  measure ! 

Many  a  tune 

From  the  masters  of  all  time 

In  my  waiting  heart  made  rhyme. 

in 

As  the  rain  on  parched  meadows, 
As  cool  shadows 
Falling  from  the  sultry  sky, 
As  loved  memories  die, 
But  live  again  when  a  well-tuned  voice 
Makes  with  old  joy  the  grieved  heart  rejoice, 
So  came  once  more  with  thy  clear  touch 
The  melodies  I  love  — 
Ah,  not  too  much, 

But  all  earth's  natural  songs  far,  far  above ! 
For  they  are  nature  felt,  and  living, 
And  human,  and  impassioned; 
And  they  full  well  are  fashioned 
To  bring  to  sound  and  sense  the  eternal  striving, 
The  inner  soul  of  the  inexpressive  ;world, 
The  meaning  furled 
Deep  at  the  heart  of  all  — 
The  thought  that  mortals  name  divine, 
Whereof  all  beauty  is  the  sign, 
That  comes, — ah !  surely  comes, — at  music's  solemn  call. 

"A  POWER  THERE   IS" 

A  POWER  there  is  that  trembles  through  the  earth; 
It  lives  in  nature's  mirth, 


THE   'CELLO  257 

Making  that  fearful  as  the  touch  of  pain ; 

It  strikes  the  sunlit  plain, 

And  harvests  flash,  or  bend  with  rushing  rain ; 

It  is  not  far  when  tempests  make  their  moan, 

And  lightnings  leap,  and  bursts  the  thunder-stone. 

It  comes  in  morning's  beam  of  living  light, 

And  the  imperial  night 

Knows  it,  and  all  its  company  of  stars, 

And  the  auroral  bars. 

Through  nature  all,  the  subtile  current  thrills; 

It  built  in  flood  and  fire  the  crystal  hills; 

It  molds  the  flowers, 

And  all  the  branched  forests  that  abide 

Forever  on  the  teeming  mountain-side. 

It  lives  where  music  times  the  soft,  processional  hours; 

And  where  on  that  lone  hill  of  art 

Proud  Phidias  carved  in  stone  his  lyric  heart ; 

And  where  wild  battle  is,  and  where 

Glad  lovers  breathe  in  starry  night  the  quivering  air. 

THE   SONG'S   ANSWER 

ME  mystic?  Have  your  way! 

But  sing  me,  if  ye  may;  — 
Then  shall  ye  know  the  power 
Of  the  seed's  thought  of  the  flower, 

Of  the  dawn's  thought  of  the  day. 

THE   'CELLO 

WHEN  late  I  heard  the  trembling  'cello  play, 
In  every  face  I  read  sad  memories 
That  from  dark,  secret  chambers  where  they  lay 
Rose,  and  looked  forth  from  melancholy  eyes. 


258  IN  PALESTINE 

So  every  mournful  thought  found  there  a  tone 

To  match  despondence;  sorrow  knew  its  mate; 

111  fortune  sighed,  and  mute  despair  made  moan; 

And  one  deep  chord  gave  answer,  "  Late,  —  too  late." 
Then  ceased  the  quivering  strain,  and  swift  returned 

Into  its  depths  the  secret  of  each  heart ; 

Each  face  took  on  its  mask,  where  lately  burned 
A  spirit  charmed  to  sight  by  music's  art; 

But  unto  one  who  caught  that  inner  flame 

No  face  of  all  can  ever  seem  the  same. 

THE  VALLEY  ROAD 

BY  this  road  have  past 

Hope  and  Joy  adance; 
And  one  at  dark  fled  fast, 

Quick  breath,  and  look  askance; 
And  in  this  dust  have  dropt 
Tears  that  never  stopt. 

Childhood,  caught  by  flowers, 

Cannot  choose  but  dally; 
Slowly  through  the  hours 

Age  creeps  down  the  valley; 
Only  Youth  goes  swift  — 
Eager,  and  head  alift. 

Summer,  and  the  night, 

Calm  and  cloudless  moon, 
And  lo !  a  path  of  light ! 

Heaven  would  come  too  soon 
To  lovers  wandering  slowly 
Through  the  starlight  holy. 


HAWTHORNE   IN   BERKSHIRE  259 

And  by  this  road  was  borne,  — 

Betwixt  sweet  banks  of  fern, 
And  willow  rows,  and  corn,  — 

He,  who  will  return 
Not,  tho'  others  may, 
The  old,  familiar  way. 

Two  streams  within  these  walls 

For  ever  and  ever  flow ; 
Back  and  forth  the  current  falls, 

The  long  processions  go; 
A  hundred  years  have  flown, 
The  human  tides  pour  on  — 

And  shall,  when  you  and  I 

Pass  no  more  again. 
Beneath  the  bending  sky 

Shall  be  no  lack  of  men; 
Never  the  road  run  bare, 
Tho'  other  feet  may  fare. 

HAWTHORNE  IN  BERKSHIRE 

MOUNTAINS  and  valleys!  dear  ye  are  to  me: 

Your  streams  wild-wandering,  ever-tranquil  lakes, 
And  forests  that  make  murmur  like  the  sea; 
And  this  keen  air  that  from  the  hurt  soul  takes 

Its  pain  and  languor.  —  Doubly  dear  ye  are 
For  many  a  lofty  memory  that  throws 
A  splendor  on  these  hights.  —  'Neath  yon  low  star, 
That  like  a  dewdrop  melts  in  heaven's  rose, 

Dwelt  once  a  starry  spirit;  there  he  smote 
Life  from  the  living  hills;  a  little  while 
He  rested  from  the  raging  of  the  world. 


260  IN  PALESTINE 

This  Brook  of  Shadows,  whose  dark  waters  purled 
Solace  to  his  deep  mind,  it  felt  his  smile  — 
Haunted,  and  melancholy,  and  remote. 

LATE   SUMMER 

THO'  summer  days  are  all  too  fleet, 
Not  yet  the  year  is  touched  with  cold; 

Through  the  long  billows  of  the  wheat 
The  green  is  lingering  in  the  gold. 

The  birds  that  thrilled  the  April  copse, 
Ah!  some  have  flown  on  silent  wings; 

Yet  one  sweet  music  never  stops: 
The  constant  vireo  sings  and  sings. 

AN  HOUR  IN  A  STUDIO 

EACH  picture  was  a  painted  memory 
Of  the  far  plains  he  loved,  and  of  their  life, — 
Weird,  mystical,  dark,  inarticulate, — 
And  cities  hidden  high  against  the  blue, 
Whose  sky-hung  steps  one  Indian  could  guard. 
The  enchanted  Mesa  there  its  fated  wall 
Lifted,  and  all  its  story  lived  again  — 
How,  in  the  happy  planting  time,  the  strong 
Went  down  to  push  the  seeds  into  the  sand, 
Leaving  the  old  and  sick.   Then  reeled  the  world 
And  toppled  to  the  plain  the  perilous  path. 
Death  climbed  another  way  to  them  who  stayed. 
He  showed  us  pictured  thirst,  a  dreadful  sight ; 
And  many  tales  he  told  that  might  have  come, 
Brought  by  some  planet- wanderer  —  fresh  from  Mars, 
Or  from  the  silver  deserts  of  the  moon. 


A   SONG   OF    THE   ROAD  261 

But  I  remember  better  than  all  else 
One  night  he  told  of  in  that  land  of  fright  — 
The  love-songs  swarthy  men  sang  to  their  herds 
On  the  high  plains  to  keep  the  beasts  in  heart; 
Piercing  the  silence  one  keen  tenor  voice 
Singing  "Ai  nostri  monti"  clear  and  high: 
Instead  of  stakes  and  fences  round  about 
They  circled  them  with  music  in  the  night. 

ILLUSION 

WHAT  strange,  fond  trick  is  this  mine  eyes  are  playing ! 
I  know  'tis  but  the  visioning  mind  perplexes, — 
The  inward  sight  the  outer  sense  betraying, — 
Yet  the  sweet  lie  the  spirit  wounds  and  vexes: 

As  at  still  midnight  pondering  here,  and  reading, 
Right  on  the  book's  white  page,  and  'twixt  the  lines, 
And  wreathing  through  the  words,  and  quick  receding, 
Only  to  come  again  (as  'mid  the  vines 

The  dryads  flash  and  hide),  white  arms  are  gleaming, 
A  light  hand  hovers,  curved  lips  are  red, 
Locks  in  a  warm  and  soundless  wind  are  streaming 

Across  the  image  of  one  glorious  head; 

No  more,  —  no  more,  —  shut  now  the  volume  lies 
On  that  swift,  piercing  look,  those  haunting  eyes. 

A  SONG  OF  THE  ROAD 

SPEED,  speed,  speed 
Through  the  day,  through  the  night ! 
Cities  are  beads  on  the  thread  of  our  flight; 
Peaks  melt  in  peaks  and  are  lost  in  the  air. 
Speed,  speed,  speed  — 

But,  O,  the  dearth  of  it, 

Thou  not  there! 


262  IN   PALESTINE 

Every  journey  is  good  if  love  be  the  goal  of  it. 
What's  all  the  world  if  love's  not  the  soul  of  it; 

What  were  the  worth  of  it  — 

Thou  not  there! 


"NOT  HERE" 

i 

NOT  here,  but  somewhere,  so  men  say, 

More  bright  the  day, 

And  the  blue  sky 

More  nigh; 

Somewhere,  afar,  the  bird  of  dawn  sings  sweeter; 

Somewhere  completer 

The  round  of  hopes  and  heart-beats  that  make  life 

More  than  a  bootless  strife. 


But,  ah !  there  be  that  know 

Where  joy  alone  doth  grow. 

Led  by  one  true  star, 

The  journey  is  not  far. 

'T  is  in  a  garden  in  no  distant  land, 

High- walled  on  every  hand; 

And  the  key  thereof 

Is  love. 

"'NO,  NO,'    SHE  SAID" 

"No,  no,"  she  said; 
"I  may  not  wed; 

If  say  I  must  —  nay  must  I  say ; 

I  cannot  stay; 

Nay,  nay,  I  needs  must  flout  thee!" 


A    SOUL   LOST,   AND    FOUND  263 

He  turned  about; 
His  life  went  out; 
"If  go  I  must,  so  must  I  go!" 
Cried  she  —  "  No,  no ; 
Ah,  what  were  life  without  thee!" 

A  SOUL  LOST,  AND  FOUND 


Lo !  here  another 
Soul  has  gone  down. 
Hope  led  each  morrow; 
Honor  was  all; 
Faith  had  no  fall; 
Fortune  no  frown. 
Brother  by  brother 
Bowed  to  each  sorrow. 
None  had  lost  heart; 
Life  was  love,  life  was  art. 

ii 

We  could  but  follow ! 

Quenchless  his  fire; 

The  mightier  the  burden 

The  stronger  his  soul, 

The  higher  the  goal. 

Now  see  the  mire 

Soil  him  and  swallow! 

Heaven !  what  guerdon 

Worth  such  a  cost! 

Love,  art,  life  —  lost,  all  lost. 

in 

Down  to  the  pallid 
Figure  of  death 


264  IN  PALESTINE 

Love's  face  is  pressing; 

Listens  and  waits, 

Beseeching  the  Fates 

For  heart-beat  and  breath  — 

Sign  clear  and  valid, 

Life  still  confessing. 

Dead!   He  is  dead! 

All  is  lost !  —  He  has  fled. 

IV 

Behold  now,  a  moving, 

A  flutter  of  life ! 

Forth  from  the  starkness, 

Horror,  and  slime, 

See,  he  doth  climb. 

With  himself  is  the  strife; 

Back  to  the  loving 

From  mire  and  the  darkness, 

Back  to  the  sun! 

He  has  fought  —  he  has  won. 

"THIS  HOUR  MY  HEART  WENT  FORTH,  AS 
IN  OLD  DAYS" 

THIS  hour  my  heart  went  forth,  as  in  old  days, 
To  one  I  loved,  forgetting  she  was  dead  — 
So  fluttered  back  the  message,  like  the  dove 
That  found  no  rest  in  all  the  weltering  world. 
Is  it  then  so  —  all  blankness  and  black  void, 
No  welcome,  no  response,  no  voice,  no  sign?. 
Ah,  Heaven !  let  us  be  foolish  —  give  us  faith 
In  what  is  not;  cheat  us  a  little  longer; 
Comfort  us  mortals  with  envisioned  forms; 
Let  us,  tho'  but  in  dreams,  see  spirits  near, 


EVEN  WHEN   JOY   IS    NEAR  265 

And  touch  the  draperies  of  imagined  shapes 
That  hold  the  souls  we  love  —  that  have  gone  forth 
Into  the  land  of  shadows,  but  still  live 
In  memory,  O,  most  dear!   Beguile  our  lives 
With  dim,  half-fashioned  phantoms  of  dead  hours. 
Lest  the  long  way  grow  hateful;  give  us  faith 
Unreasoned,  vague,  unsubstanced,  but  still  faith; 
For  faith  is  hope,  and  hope  alone  is  life. 

"EVEN  WHEN  JOY  IS  NEAR" 

EVEN  when  joy  is  near 

These  ghosts  of  banished  thoughts  do  haunt  the  mind: 
The  awful  void  of  space  wherein  our  earth, 
An  atom  in  the  unending  whirl  of  stars, 
Circles,  all  helpless,  to  a  nameless  doom; 
The  swift,  indifferent  marshaling  of  fate 
Whereby  the  world  moves  on,  rewarding  vice 
And  punishing  angelic  innocence 
As  't  were  the  crime  of  crimes;  the  brute,  dull,  slow 
Persistence  in  the  stifled  mind  of  man 
Of  forces  that  drive  all  his  being  back 
Into  the  slime;  the  silent  cruelty 
Of  nature,  that  doth  crush  the  unseen  soul 
Hidden  within  its  sensitive  shell  of  flesh; 
The  anguish  and  the  sorrow  of  all  time,  — 
These  are  forever  with  me,  —  but  grow  dim 
When  I  remember  my  sweet  mother's  face. 
Somewhere,  at  heart  of  all,  the  right  must  reign 
If  in  the  garden  of  the  infinite 
Such  loveliness  be  brought  to  perfect  bloom. 


266  IN  PALESTINE 

RESURRECTION 

BACK  to  my  body  came  I  in  the  gray  of  the  dawning, 
Back  to  my  bed  in  the  mold,  'neath  the  sod  and  the 

blossoms; 
Not;  strange  seemed  my  natural  couch,  not  new,  not 

afflicting; 

But  strange  now,  and  new,  and  afflicting  my  natural  body, 
Alien  long  while  my  soul  took  the  wings  of  the  morning. 
I  lifted  my  hands  to  the  light  —  then  swiftly  I  followed, 
With  fingers  that  carefully  prest,  the  curve  of  the 

muscles; 

All  was  familiar;  this  was  the  frame  I  had  nurtured, 
I  had  loved  as  a  man  loves  the  body  so  long  his  com 
panion  ; 
Again  was  I  'ware  of  the  brow  where  the  dew  of  sweet 

kisses 

Fell,  ere  forth  went  the  stripling  to  life  and  the  shudder 
Of  battle ;  —  again  from  the  mirror  of  waters  the  features 
Not  unloved  of  dear  comrades  looked  forth.   I  beheld  in 

amazement 

The  bodily  presence  so  long  laid  aside  and  forgotten; 
Overwhelmed  was  my  soul  with  its  shackles;  I  grieved, 

I  lamented 

As  a  prisoner  dragged  back  to  his  cell,  as  an  eagle  re 
captured. 

"AS  SOARS  THE  EAGLE" 

As  soars  the  eagle,  intimate  of  light, 
Fear  not  the  face  of  the  sun; 
Nor  all  the  blasts  of  earth. 
Child  of  Him,  the  untrembling  One, 
O,  prove  thee  worthy  of  thy  birth ! 


ROBERT   GOULD   SHAW  267 

Let  no  ill  betray  thee! 
Let  no  death  dismay  thee! 

The  eagle  seeks  the  sky, 
Nor  fears  the  infinite  light; 
Thus,  soul  of  mine,  escape  the  night 
And  'gainst  the  morning  fly! 


PART  III 

ROBERT  GOULD   SHAW 
(THE  MONUMENT  BY  AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS) 

i 

FIXT  in  one  desire, 
Thrilled  by  one  fierce  fire, 
Marching  men  and  horse, 
And  he  the  youthful  rider  —  one  soul,  one  aim,  one  force. 

ii 

Onward  he  doth  press; 

Moving,  tho'  motionless; 

Resolute,  intent, 

As  on  some  mighty  errand  the  willing  youth  were  bent. 

in 

Onward,  tho'  he  hears 
Father's,  sisters'  tears; 
Onward,  tho'  before  him 

—  Grief  more  near,  more  dear  —  the  breaking  heart  that 
bore  him. 

rv 

Onward,  tho'  he  leaves 
One  who  lonely  grieves; 


268  IN   PALESTINE 

O,  keep  him,  Fate!  from  harm. 

For  on  his  dewy  lips  the  bridal  kiss  is  warm. 


What  doth  he  behold 
Making  the  boy  so  bold  ? 
Speak  with  whispering  breath ! 

O  Fate,  O  Fame,  O  radiant  soul  in  love  with  glorious 
Death ! 

VI 

Eyes  that  forward  peer  — 
Why  have  they  no  fear? 
Because,  through  blood  and  blight, 
They  see  the  golden  morning  burst  and  bring  the  living 
light; 

VII 

See  War  the  fetters  strike 
From  white  and  black  alike; 
See,  past  the  pain  and  scorn, 

A  nation  saved,  a  race  redeemed,  and  freedom  newly 
born; 

vm 

See,  in  days  to  come,— 

When  silent  War's  loud  drum, 

Ere  civic  wrong  shall  cease,  — 

Heroes  as  pure  and  brave  arise  on  battlefields  of  peace. 

"THE  NORTH  STAR   DRAWS   THE   HERO" 

(TO  H.    N.    G.) 

THE  North  Star  draws  the  hero;  he  abides 
Stedfast  tho'  death  defends  the  unending  quest. 

But,  ah,  more  faithful  still  the  love  that  hides 
In  woman's  empty  arms  and  aching  breast ! 


SCORN  269 

GLAVE 

THIS  day  I  read  in  the  sad  scholar's  page 
That  the  old  earth  is  withered  and  undone; 
That  faith  and  great  emprize  beneath  the  sun 
Are  vain  and  empty  in  our  doting  age; 

JT  were  best  to  calm  the  spirit's  noble  rage, 
To  live  in  dreams,  and  all  high  passion  shun, 
While  round  and  round  the  aimless  seasons  run  — 
Pleasured  alone  with  dead  art's  heritage. 

Then,  as  I  read,  outshone  thy  face  of  youth, 
Hero  and  martyr  of  humanity, 
Dead  yesterday  on  Af ric's  shore  of  doom ! 

Ah,  no;  Faith,  Courage  fail  not,  while  lives  Truth, 
While  Pity  lives,  while  man  for  man  can  die, 
And  deeds  of  glory  light  the  dark  world's  gloom. 

OF  HENRY   GEORGE 

WHO  DIED  FIGHTING    AGAINST    POLITICAL  TYRANNY 
AND   CORRUPTION 

Now  is  the  city  great!   That  deep-voiced  bell 
Tolls  for  a  martyred  hero.   Such  is  he 

Who  loved  her,  strove  for  her,  and  nobly  fell. 

His  fire  be  ours  —  the  passion  to  be  free. 
NEW  YORK,  1897. 

SCORN 

WHO  are  the  men  that  good  men  most  despise? 
Not  they  who,  ill  begot  and  spawned  in  shame, 
Riot  and  rob,  or  rot  before  men's  eyes,  — 
Who  basely  live,  and  dying  leave  no  name. 

These  are  the  piteous  refuse  of  mankind, 

Fatal  the  ascendant  star  when  they  were  born, 


2  JO  IN  PALESTINE 

Distort  in  body,  starved  in  soul  and  mind; 
Ah,  not  for  them  the  good  man's  bitter  scorn! 

He,  only,  is  the  despicable  one 

Who  lightly  sells  his  honor  as  a  shield 

For  fawning  knaves,  to  hide  them  from  the  sun ; 

Too  nice  for  crime,  yet,  coward,  he  doth  yield 
For  crime  a  shelter.   Swift  to  Paradise 
The  contrite  thief,  not  Judas  with  his  price ! 

THE  HEROIC   AGE 

HE  speaks  not  well  who  doth  his  time  deplore, 
Naming  it  new  and  little  and  obscure, 
Ignoble  and  unfit  for  lofty  deeds. 
All  times  were  modern  in  the  time  of  them, 
And  this  no  more  than  others.   Do  thy  part 
Here  in  the  living  day,  as  did  the  great 
Who  made  old  days  immortal!   So  shall  men, 
Gazing  long  back  to  this  far-looming  hour, 
Say:  "Then  the  time  when  men  were  truly  men: 
Tho'  wars  grew  less,  their  spirits  met  the  test 
Of  new  conditions;  conquering  civic  wrong; 
Saving  the  state  anew  by  virtuous  lives; 
Guarding  the  country's  honor  as  their  own, 
And  their  own  as  their  country's  and  their  sons*: 
Proclaiming  service  the  one  test  of  worth ; 
Defying  leagued  fraud  with  single  truth ; 
Knights  of  the  spirit;  warriors  in  the  cause 
Of  justice  absolute  'twixt  man  and  man ; 
Not  fearing  loss;  and  daring  to  be  pure. 
When  error  through  the  land  raged  like  a  pest 
They  calmed  the  madness  caught  from  mind  to  mind 
By  wisdom  drawn  from  eld,  and  counsel  sane; 
And  as  the  martyrs  of  the  ancient  world 


THE    SWORD   OF   THE    SPIRIT  271 

Gave  Death  for  man,  so  nobly  gave  they  Life : 
Those  the  great  days,  and  that  the  heroic  age." 
ATHENS,  1896. 

THE  SWORD   OF  THE  SPIRIT 

(IN   MEMORY   OF  JOE   EVANS) 

Too  much  of  praise  for  the  quick,  pitiless  blow! 
Justice  doth  lean  on  strength,  full  well  we  know; 
But  the  sharp,  glittering  sword  that  strikes  for  right 
Takes  fame  too  easily.   Thank  Heaven  for  might, 
Which  is  Heaven's  servant,  oft!   Yet  he's  not  man 
Who,  when  the  heart's  afire,  no  brave  deed  can. 
Praise  thou  the  clencht  fist  that,  when  blood  is  hot, 
On  itself  tightens,  but  descendeth  not. 
Ay,  praise  the  sword  undrawn,  the  bolt  unsped, 
The  rage  supprest  till  the  true  word  is  said. 
Might  of  the  spirit,  this  shalt  thou  extol, 
And  holy  weakness  of  the  conquering  soul. 

And  on  this  day,  when  one  well  loved  has  past 
From  suffering  to  the  unknown  peace,  at  last, 
Would  I  might  praise,  as  nobly  as  I  ought, 
The  hero-soldier  who  no  battle  fought  — 
Or,  rather,  one  who,  facing  fate's  worst  frown, 
The  spirit's  sword  but  with  his  life  laid  down. 
The  soul  that  from  that  body,  bent  and  frail, 
Peered  out,  did  at  no  earthly  terror  quail. 
To  face  an  army  he  was  brave  enough ; 
Martyrs  and  conquerors  are  of  that  stuff. 
And  in  the  civic  conflict  that  was  waged 
Year  after  year,  his  knightly  spirit  raged; 
He  could  not  bear  his  country  should  have  blame, 
So  this  slight  warrior  did  the  mighty  shame. 


272  IN  PALESTINE 

Yet  Beauty  was  his  passion,  and  the  art 

To  paint  it  —  that  it  might  not  all  depart. 

He  loved  the  gentlest  things;  there  was  a  grace 

In  his  sad  look  surpassing  many  a  face 

More  beautiful.   Ah,  back,  ye  bitter  tears! 

He,  lover  of  light  and  gladness,  all  these  years 

Fighting  twin  demons  of  keen  pain  and  doom ; 

He,  of  such  humor  that  the  very  tomb 

Might  snatch  a  brightness  from  his  presence  there ! 

But  no;  not  bright  the  tomb.   We,  in  despair, 

Seek  through  the  world  again  a  charm  like  this  — 

That  which  our  friend  has  taken  we  shall  forever  miss. 

April,  1898. 

"THROUGH  ALL  THE  CUNNING  AGES" 

THROUGH  all  the  cunning  ages 
Mankind  hath  made  for  man 

From  out  his  loves  and  rages 
A  god  to  bless  and  ban. 

When  he  his  foe  despises 

This  god  he  calls  to  curse; 
And  would  he  win  earth's  prizes 

His  praise  doth  man  rehearse. 

So,  when  he  craves  the  guerdon 

Of  others'  land  and  pelf, 
He  flings  the  blame  and  burden 

On  this  shadow  of  himself. 

If,  spite  of  all  their  ranting, 

There  reigns  a  God  indeed, 
How  well  He  hates  the  canting 
That  framed  their  sordid  creed! 


WHEN   WITH   THEIR   COUNTRY'S   ANGER      273 

"Lay  not  to  me  your  hollow 

And  broken  words  of  faith  — 
To  sin  that  good  may  follow 
No  law  of  mine,"  He  saith. 

"If,  'twixt  your  tribes  and  nations, 

There  lives  no  law  but  might, 
Not  myriad  incantations 
Can  make  your  evil  right. 

"Ye  call  me  'God  of  battle'; 

I  weary  while  ye  slay. 
Are  ye  my  horned  cattle 
To  find  no  better  way?" 


ONE  COUNTRY  — ONE  SACRIFICE 

(ENSIGN  WORTH  BAGLEY,  MAY  u,  1898) 

IN  one  rich  drop  of  blood,  ah,  what  a  sea 

Of  healing!   Thou,  sweet  boy,  wert  first  to  fall 
In  our  new  war;  and  thou  wert  Southron  all! 

There  is  no  North,  no  South,  remembering  thee, 

WHEN  WITH  THEIR  COUNTRY'S  ANGER" 

WHEN  with  their  country's  anger 

They  flame  into  the  fight,  — 
On  sea,  in  treacherous  forest, 

To  strike  with  main  and  might, — 

He  shows  the  gentlest  mercy 
Who  rains  the  deadliest  blows; 

Then  quick  war's  hell  is  ended, 
And  home  the  hero  goes. 


274  IN   PALESTINE 

What  stays  the  noblest  memory 
For  all  his  years  to  keep? 

Not  of  the  foemen  slaughtered, 
But  rescued  from  the  deep! 

Rescued  with  peerless  daring! 

O,  none  shall  forget  that  sight, 
When  the  unaimed  cannon  thundered 

In  the  ghastly  after-fight. 

And,  now,  in  the  breast  of  the  hero 
There  blooms  a  strange,  new  flower, 

A  blood-red,  fragrant  blossom 
Sown  in  the  battle-hour. 

'T  is  not  the  Love  of  Comrades,  — 
That  flower  forever  blows, — 

But  the  brave  man's  Love  of  Courage, 
The  Love  of  Comrade-Foes. 

For  since  the  beginning  of  battles 
On  the  land  and  on  the  wave, 

Heroes  have  answered  to  heroes, 
The  brave  have  honored  the  brave. 


A  VISION 

ALL  round  the  glimmering  circuit  of  the  isle 
Audibly  pulsed  the  ocean.  In  the  dark 
Of  the  thick  wood  a  voice  not  of  its  own 
Might  come  to  sharpened  ears ;  a  sound  supprest, 
The  rustling  of  an  armed  multitude 
Who  toss  in  sleep,  or,  wakening,  watch  for  death. 
Beneath  the  tropic  stars  that  in  strange  skies 
Drew  close  and  glittered  large,  I  saw  in  dream 
A  Soul  pass  hoveringly. 


THE   WORD   OF   THE   WHITE   CZAR         275 

Then  came  I  near 

And  questioned  of  that  Ghost,  who  answer  made 
Like  a  deep,  murmuring  wind  that  slowly  draws 
Through  dim  memorial  aisles  of  ancient  time:  — 

"I  am  the  mother  of  men,  and  from  my  womb 

Came  all  the  dead  and  living.   I  am  curst 

With  memory,  with  knowledge  of  what  is, 

And  what  shall  be;  yet,  verily,  am  I  blest 

With  these  three  knowledges,  —  my  children  I 

Have  seen  these  myriad  years  grow,  age  by  age, 

More  wise,  more  just,  more  joyous,  yet  have  I 

Seen  mutual  slaughter  sow  the  earth  with  tears. 

In  this  New  World  here  had  I  hoped  my  children 

Would  learn  to  unlearn  the  path  mankind  had  climbed 

Over  its  slain  to  happiness  and  power; 

For  soon  or  late  I  know  that  boon  shall  come, 

And  in  the  wars  of  peace  the  race  shall  wax 

Manlier,  purer,  gentler,  and  more  wise. 

u  But  now  again  the  sacred  truce  is  broken, 
And  bleeds  this  breast  at  every  wound  and  sigh, 
And  aches  my  mother-heart  with  the  new  pain 
Of  mortal  mothers  comfortless  forever." 

Then  past  the  Spirit  from  my  dream  at  dawn; 
I  woke  into  another  day  of  war 
With  news  of  splendid  deeds,  and  victory  — 
Yet  still  I  heard  that  brooding  shade  lament. 


THE  WORD   OF  THE   WHITE   CZAR 

THIS  day,  a  strange  and  beautiful  word  was  spoken,  — 
Not  with  the  voice  of  a  child,  nor  the  voice  of  a  woman, 
Nor  yet  with  the  voice  of  a  poet,  the  melody  sounded,  — 


276  IN   PALESTINE 

Forth  from  the  lips  of  a  warrior,  girt  for  the  battle, 
Breathed  this  word  of  words  o'er  a  world  astonished. 

Prisoners  returning  from  war,  and  conquering  armies, 
Navies  flusht  with  new  and  amazing  victory, 
Heard  the  message,  so  strange,  so  high,  so  entrancing, 
And  soldiers  dying  of  wounds  or  the  wasting  of  fever. 
In  tropic  islands  it  sounded,  through  wrecks  of  cities; 
O'er  burning  plains  where  warlike  death  was  in  wait 
ing; 

Armies  and  navies  confronting,  in  watchful  silence, 
Heard  it  and  wondered;  statesmen  stopt  their  debates, 
And  turning  their  eyes  toward  the  voice,  with  its  mean 
ing  unlocked  for, 
Listened  and  smiled  with  the  smile  and  the  sneer  of  the 

cynic. 
But  the  mothers  of  youths  who  had  died  of  their  wounds 

and  of  fever, 
And  the  poor  crusht  down  by  the  price  of  the  glory  of 

battle 
And  the  weight  of  the  wars  that  have  been,  and  that  yet 

are  preparing, 
They  from  their  burdens  looked  up  and  uttered  their 

blessing: 

For   Peace, —  the   Peace   of   God, —  was   the   warrior's 
prayer ! 

And  I,  who  heard,  I  saw  in  a  waking  vision 

An  image  familiar  long  to  the  hearts  of  mortals, 

A  face  of  trouble,  a  brow  celestial,  yet  human  — 

In  a  dream  of  the  day,  I  saw  that  suffering  spirit, 

Him  accustomed  to  labor,  to  anguish  not  alien, 

Still  mourning  for  men  alone  in  the  valley  of  shadows;  — 

I  dreamed  that  he  lifted  that  face  of  infinite  sorrow, 


A  SONG   FOR  DOROTHEA,  ACROSS  THE  SEA      277 

And  harkened  —  when  lo !  a  light  in  those  eyes  of  sad 
ness 

Came  sudden  as  day  that  breaks  from  the  mountains  of 
Moab. 

PART   IV 

A  SONG  FOR  DOROTHEA,   ACROSS   THE 
SEA 

A  SONG  for  you,  my  darling, 

For  your  own,  dear,  only  sake. 
You  bid  me  sing — so  does  the  spring 

Bid  the  birds  awake, 

And  quick  with  molten  music  the  dewy  branches  quake. 

A  song  for  you,  my  darling, 

To  follow  you  all  the  day; 
And  in  sweet  sleep  the  song  shall  keep 

Singing  along  the  way, 

Through   dreamland's   silver   meadows   with   golden 
lilies  gay. 

A  song  for  you,  my  darling, 

For  those  deep  and  darkling  eyes, 
That  stedfast  shine  as  the  stars  divine 

Bright  in  the  midnight  skies, 

When  the  winds  blow  the  clouds  from  heaven,  and  we 
gaze  with  a  glad  surprise. 

A  song  for  you,  my  darling, 

A  song  for  that  faithful  heart 
That  as  true  abides  as  the  throbbing  tides, 

Tho'  half  a  world  apart  — 

So  far  away  is  the  girl  I  sing,  with  only  a  lover's  art. 


278  IN   PALESTINE 

A  BLIND  POET 

CALL  him  not  blind 

Whose  keen,  anointed  sight, 

Pierced  every  secret  of  the  heart,  the  mind, 

The  day,  the  night. 


ON  A  WOMAN  SEEN  UPON  THE  STAGE 

("TESS,"  AS   PLAYED   BY   MRS.    FISKE) 

ALAS,  poor,  fated,  passionate,  shivering  thing ! 
So  through  brief  life  some  dagger-haunted  king 
Wears  a  bright  sorrow.   Thus  her  life  rehearse : 
She  was  a  woman;  this  her  crown,  her  curse. 


OF  ONE  WHO    NEITHER    SEES   NOR  HEARS 
(HELEN  KELLER) 

SHE  lives  in  light,  not  shadow; 

Not  silence,  but  the  sound 
Which  thrills  the  stars  of  heaven 

And  trembles  from  the  ground. 

She  breathes  a  finer  ether, 

Beholds  a  keener  sun; 
In  her  supernal  being 

Music  and  light  are  one. 

Unknown  the  subtile  senses 
That  lead  her  through  the  day; 

Love,  light,  and  song  and  color 
Come  by  another  way. 


ESPOUSALS    OF   JEANNE   ROUMANILLE      279 

Sight  brings  she  to  the  seeing, 

New  song  to  those  that  hear; 
Her  braver  spirit  sounding 

Where  mortals  fail  and  fear. 

She  at  the  heart  of  being 

Serene  and  glad  doth  dwell; 
Spirit  with  scarce  a  veil  of  flesh; 

A  soul  made  visible. 

Or  is  it  only  a  lovely  girl 

With  flowers  at  her  maiden  breast? 
—  Helen,  here  is  a  book  of  song 

From  the  poet  who  loves  you  best. 

FOR  THE  ESPOUSALS  OF  JEANNE 
ROUMANILLE,  OF  AVIGNON 

WHILE  joy-bells  are  ringing 
And  the  high  Fates  meet  thee, 

Child  of  the  South,  and  of  singing, 
Singing  I  greet  thee. 

In  thy  chaplet  one  flower 

From  a  far  world!   Wilt  wear  it? 

Rich  tho'  thy  land,  and  this  hour, 
Thou  may'st  not  forbear  it; 

Thou  wilt  welcome  and  win  it; 

It  will  breathe  on,  caress  thee; 
For  the  fame  of  thy  father  is  in  it; 

His  lover  doth  bless  thee ! 

His  lover  —  the  lover  of  thee,  O  Provence; 

Thy  blue  skies,  thy  gray  mountains; 
The  heart-beat  of  Freedom  and  France 

Shakes  thy  rivers  and  fountains, 


280  IN    PALESTINE 

And  makes  thee  a  dream  and  a  passion 

In  the  souls  of  all  poets  forever, 
While  from  thy  fire  thou  dost  fashion 

Beauty  and  music  and  art  that  shall  perish,  O,  never! 


TO  MARIE  JOSEPHINE  GIRARD,  QUEEN  OF 
THE   FELIBRES 

ON  HER   WEDDING-DAY 

QUEENS  have  there  been  of  many  a  fair  domain 

Of  arts,  of  hearts,  of  lands. 

Thy  sovereignty  a  threefold  realm  commands 
Who  o'er  Provence,  and  Poetry,  and  Love  dost  reign. 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  TOWER  IN  FLORENCE 

(WRITTEN  FOR  THE  CHATELAINE) 

i 

FOUR- WALLED  is  my  tower: 

The  first  wall  is  for  the  dawn  that  comes  from  Vallom- 

brosa, 
The  second  wall  is  for  the  day  that  fills  with  soft  fire  the 

green  vase  of  Tuscany, 
The  third  is  for  the  evening  twilight  that  darkens  from 

the  Valley  of  the  Arno, 
The  fourth  is  for  the  night  and  the  stars  of  night. 


Four- walled  is  my  tower: 

One  wall  is  for  the  South  and  the  sun, 

One  is  for  the  West  and  for  memory, 


WITH   A   VOLUME   OF   DANTE  281 

One  is  for  the  North  and  the  star  that  never  sets, 
And  one  is  for  the  East  and  a  faith  that  fares  beyond 
the  stars. 

in 

Four- walled  is  my  tower: 
One  wall  is  for  the  Spring  and  for  Hope, 
One  is  for  Summer  and  for  Love, 
One  is  for  Autumn  and  the  Harvest, 
One  is  for  Winter  and  for  Waiting. 

IV 

Four- walled  is  my  tower: 

One  is  for  Childhood  and  the  Innocence  of  Life, 

The  second  is  for  Youth  and  the  Joy  of  Life, 

The  third  is  for  Manhood  and  the  Fullness  of  Life, 

The  fourth  is  for  Old  Age  and  the  Wisdom  of  Life. 


Four- walled  is  my  tower: 

A  Rock  for  Strength, 

A  Hight  for  Seeing, 

A  Beacon  for  the  Stranger, 

And  a  Hearth  for  Friendship. 

Four-walled  is  my  tower 

On  the  Hill  of  Bellosguardo. 

WITH  A  VOLUME   OF   DANTE 

O  THOU  whom  Virgil  and  thy  Beatrice 

Through  life  and  death,  Hell,  Purgatory,  Heaven, 

Led  upward  into  unimagined  light  — 

Lead  thou  this  soul  the  way  thou,  too,  didst  go 

Unto  the  Light  that  lights  the  eternal  stars! 


POEMS   AND    INSCRIPTIONS 


\\ 


POEMS 


AUTUMN  AT  FOUR-BROOKS  FARM 

No  song-bird,  singing,  soaring, 

But  the  brooks  are  up  and  roaring! 

Along  the  lane  one  lonely  tree 

Starts  a  sound  like  a  storm  at  sea. 

The  round,  black  clouds  pursue 

Across  the  gulfs  of  blue; 

So  fast  they  fly  the  mountain  crest 

Reels  backward  to  the  blowing  west. 

Shadow  and  sun  rush  on  together 

Across  the  hills  in  the  gusty  weather, 

And  leaves  like  flocks  of  golden  birds 

Take  flight  above  the  huddling  herds. 

Hark,  hark  that  bell-like  baying !  — 

The  wily  fox  with  the  hound  is  playing; 

All  is  motion,  and  air,  and  strife; 

Down  the  valley  the  floods  are  pouring; 

This  is  Autumn,  O,  this  is  life; 

No  song-bird  sings,  but  the  hawks  are  soaring, 

And  the  brooks  are  up  and  roaring! 

INDOORS  IN  EARLY  SPRING 
i 

IN  the  old  farm-house  living-room 

Four  shrunken  doors  shut  out  the  gloom ; 

Two  curtained  windows  hide  night's  pall; 


286  POEMS   AND   INSCRIPTIONS 

These  openings  six  in  the  ancient  wall 

Let  in  the  breeze  in  seams. 

The  air  in  spark-lit,  pouring  streams 

From  hearth  to  heaven  leaps. 

Against  the  black  of  the  chimney-soot 

The  forked  flames  upshoot, 

And  the  blaze  a-roaring  keeps. 

ii 

Every  log  is  a  separate  flute; 

And  every  chink  a  singing  wire 

Of  some  unseen  ^Eolian  lyre 

Tuned  to  the  music  of  the  fire. 

The  little  tinkling  sounds;  the  low, 

Sweet  whistlings  of  the  bubbling  wood; 

The  thundering  bass  of  winds  that  blow 

In  leafless  maples  by  the  road  — 

All  make  a  music  in  the  mind; 

While,  book  in  hand,  in  musing  mood, — 

My  body  here,  my  soul  in  flight,— 

Through  the  true  poet's  world  I  wind, 

And  there  a  spirit-music  find 

That  mixes  with  the  sounding  night. 

THE  NIGHT  PASTURE 
i 

IN  a  starry  night  of  June,  before  the  moon  had  come 
over  into  our  valley  from  the  high  valley  beyond, 

Up  the  winding  mountain-lane  I  wandered,  and,  stop 
ping,  leaned  on  the  bars,  and  listened; 

And  I  heard  the  little  brook  sliding  from  stone  to 
stone;  and  I  heard  the  sound  of  the  bells  as  the  cows 
moved — heavily,  slowly, 


THE    NIGHT   PASTURE  287 

In  various  keys,  deep,  or  like  sleigh-bells  tinkling, 
sounded  the  chiming  cow-bells  — 

Starting  and  stilling,  irregular;  near  or  far  away  in 
the  dusk  — 

And  the  nearer  cows  I  heard  chewing  the  cud,  and 
breathing  warm  on  the  cool  air  of  the  mountain  slope 

In  the  night  pasture. 

ii 

Terrace  on  terrace  rises  the  farm,  from  meadow  and 
winding  river  to  forest  of  chestnut  and  pine; 

There  by  the  high-road,  among  the  embowering  maples, 
nestles  the  ancient  homestead; 

From  each  new  point  of  vantage  lovelier  seems  the 
valley,  and  the  hill-framed  sunset  ever  more  and  more 
moving  and  glorious; 

But  when  in  the  thunderous  city  I  think  of  the  moun 
tain  farm,  nothing  so  sweet  of  remembrance, —  holding 
me  as  in  a  dream, — 

As  the  silver  note  of  the  unseen  brook,  and  the  clang 
ing  of  the  cow-bells  fitfully  in  the  dark,  and  the  deep 
breathing  of  the  cows 

In  the  night  pasture. 

in 

Then  I  think,  not  of  myself  —  but  an  image  comes  to 
me  of  one  who  has  past, 

Of  an  old  man  bent  with  labor; 

He,  like  his  father  before  him,  for  many  and  many  a 
year, 

When  the  cows  down  the  mountains  have  trudged  in 
the  summer  evening,  and  after  the  evening  milking, 

Night  after  night,  and  year  after  year,  back  up  the 
lane  he  has  driven  them,  while  the  shepherd-dog  leaped 
and  barked  — 


288  POEMS   AND  INSCRIPTIONS 

Back  up  the  lane,  and  past  the  orchard,  and  through 
the  bars 

Into  the  night  pasture. 

IV 

There  in  the  twilight  I  see  him  stand: 
He  listens  to  the  sounds  of  the  field  and  the  forest, 
On  his  brow  strikes  the  cool  mountain  air; 
Hard  is  the  old  man's  life  and  full  indeed  of  sorrow  — 
But  now,  for  a  moment,  respite  from  labor,  in  the 
pause  'twixt  day  and  night ! 

Perhaps  to  his  heart  comes  a  sense  of  the  beauty  that 
fills  all  this  exquisite  valley  — 

A  sense  of  peace  and  of  rest;  a  thought  of  the  long 
and  toilless  night  that  comes  to  all, 

As  he  leans  on  the  bars  and  listens,  and  hears  the  deep- 
breathed  cows,  and  the  scattered  sound  of  the  bells 
In  the  night  pasture. 

A  LETTER  FROM  THE  FARM 

TELL  you  the  news 
From  Four-Brooks  Farm? 
Well, 

But  there  is  news  to  tell, 
As  long  as  my  arm ! 
"  What !  a  new  she-calf  born 
To  this  world  forlorn?" 
Few  things  are  finer 
Than  a  fine  heifer-calf, 
And  most  things  are  minor; 
But  't  is  better  by  half 
The  news  that  I've  got  now! 
Such  a  wonderful  lot  now 


A   LETTER   FROM   THE    FARM  289 

Of  heifers,  —  why,  what  now 

Such  farm  news  as  this ! 

You  were  here,  when,  what  bliss! 

Alpha  dropt  on  our  planet, 

And  we  all  ran  to  scan  it: 

How  the  soft  thing,  with  silk  down, 

Had  learned  to  bring  milk  down 

Without  any  teaching, 

Example,  or  preaching! 

Not  this  is  the  news 
From  Four-Brooks  Farm  — 
Nor  the  ice-pond  built 
Where  Hermit  Brook  spilt; 
Nor  the  great  pine  we  found 
Thunder-burst  in  the  middle 
And  spread  on  the  ground 
Like  the  strings  of  a  fiddle; 
Not  of  this,  not  of  that,  — 
Such  news  now  were  flat, — 
But  something  far  racier! 
Muir,  of  Alaska, 
Path-finder,  cliff-basker, 
Known  of  bird,  known  of  deer 
(Grizzlies  know  him,  won't  harm), 
John  Muir  has  been  here, 
And  has  hitched  to  the  farm 
A  great  blanket  glacier! 
Don't  flout  it!  don't  doubt  it! 
'T  is  as  sure  and  as  clear 
As  if  on  the  rock, 
With  chisel  and  knock, 
A  giant  of  eld 
His  message  had  spelled, 


2QO  POEMS  AND  INSCRIPTIONS 

And  ten  thousand  years  after 
We  read  it,  —  with  laughter 
And  loyal  acclaim,  — 
His  ancestry,  name, 
The  work  he  was  doing, 
The  place  whence  he  came, 
And  the  journey  pursuing. 

"This  giant  of  eld! 
See  his  path,"  said  John  Muir, 

"Here  it  held 
Northwest  to  southeast; 
Slow  and  sure, 
Like  a  king  at  a  feast 
Eating  down  through  the  list; 
Inch  by  inch,  crunch  by  crunch; 
Yonder  hollow  his  lunch, 
Of  this  valley  —  one  gobble, 
Then  he  supped  light  on  Cobble! 
This  big  boulder,  he  bore  it; 
Through  eons  uncounted 
That  range  there  he  mounted, 
He  tore  it. 

Rock-grinding;  strata  rending; 
Always  pausing;  never  ending; 
O  what  a  grand  rumpus! 
Now,  down  on  your  knees," 
Said  Muir,  "an  you  please, 
And  out  with  your  compass!" 
(By  the  way  —  't  was  Thoreau's 
As  Muir  well  knows) 
And  then,  in  a  trice, 
Where  the  quartz  glistens  white, 
Smooth  as  ice, 
In  the  clear,  slanting  light 


STROLLING    TOWARD    SHOTTERY 

The  fine  striae  show, — 
Like  arrows  they  go 
Northwest  to  southeast, 
Just  as  John  Muir  pleased! 

And  as  he  spoke  I  saw  the  huge  creature  glide, 
With  speed  that  scarcely  lessened  or  increased, 
From  the  far  pole  to  ocean's  melting  tide. 
Through  countless  boreal  hours 
It  moved  on  its  torn  pathway  deep  and  wide; 
Its  shining  bulk  I  saw 

Crunching  the  mountain  tops  with  monstrous  maw;  — 
To  make  our  Four-Brooks  Farm  with  all  its  flocks  and 
flowers. 

SUMMER  BEGINS 

THE  bright  sun  has  been  hid  so  long, 

Such  endless  rains,  such  clouds  and  glooms! 

But  now,  as  with  a  burst  of  song, 
The  happy  Summer  morning  blooms. 

The  brooks  are  full,  it  is  their  youth; 

No  hint  of  shrunken  age  have  they; 
They  shout  like  children,  and  in  truth, 

No  human  child  so  careless-gay. 

How  fresh  the  woods,  each  separate  leaf 

Is  shining  in  the  joyful  sun. 
Strange!  I  have  half  forgotten  grief; 

I  think  that  life  has  just  begun. 

"STROLLING  TOWARD  SHOTTERY" 

STROLLING  toward  Shottery  on  one  showery  day, 
We  saw  upon  the  turf  beside  the  path 


2Q2  POEMS  AND  INSCRIPTIONS 

A  clown  who,  stooping  by  the  pleasant  way, 

Rough-cobbled  his  torn  shoes  and  spoke  in  feigned 
wrath. 

At  first  we  thought  him  brain-touched  and  askew, 

But,  as  we  listened  to  his  shrilling  talk, 
We  found  him  prating  of  some  things  he  knew, 

Tho'  others  he  but  guessed;  —  we  halted  in  our  walk. 

His  was  the  wisdom  shrewd  of  roadside  men, 

Gathered  in  wanderings  through  the  country  wide; 

He  had  a  cynic  wit,  and  to  his  ken 
The  world  wagged  wickedly —  saved  by  its  humorous 
side. 

Racy  his  speech  and,  tho'  it  bit,  good-hearted; 

There  was  an  honest  freshness  in  the  tramp; 
We  felt  his  debtor,  therefore  when  we  parted 

Some  pennies  wealthier  the  philosophic  scamp! 

Laughing  we  followed  on  to  sweet  Anne's  cot : 
—  Perhaps  like  us  her  lover  left  the  town ; 

Like  us  he  crossed  the  pretty  pasture  lot, 

And  met, —  and  made  immortal, —  one  more  Shake 
speare  clown. 


STRATFORD   BELLS 

ONE  Sabbath  eve,  betwixt  green  Avon's  banks, 

In  a  dream-world  we  hour  by  hour  did  float; 

The  ruffling  swans  moved  by  in  stately  ranks; 

With  soft,  sad  eyes  the  cattle  watched  our  boat. 
We,  passionate  pilgrims  from  a  far-off  land, 

Beyond  the  vexed  Bermoothes:  O,  how  dear 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  293 

That   strange,   sweet  picture  — by  the   Enchanter's 

wand 
Familiar  to  our  spirits  made,  and  near! 

But  suddenly  a  rich  and  resonant  sound 
Thrilled  from  the  skies  and  waters;  lo,  the  chimes 
Of  Stratford  rang  and  rang;  the  very  ground 

Murmured,  as  with  a  deep-voiced  poet's  rhymes; 
Then  swift  melodious  tone  on  tone  was  hurled : 
'Twas  Shakespeare's  music  brimmed  the  trembling 
world. 

IN  WORDSWORTH'S  ORCHARD 

DOVE    COTTAGE 

IN  Wordsworth's  orchard,  one  sweet  summer  day, 
Breathless  we  listened  to  his  thrushes  sing; 
We  heard  the  trickling  of  the  little  spring 
Beneath  the  terrace;  saw  the  tender  play 

Of  breezes  'midst  the  leaves;  scarce  could  we  say 
The  well-loved  verses  whose  rich  blossoming 
Was  on  this  narrow  hillside;  strange  they  ring 
For  tears  that  choke  the  numbers  on  their  way. 

Then  home  by  winding  Rothay  did  we  turn 
While  bird,  and  bloom,  and  mountain  seemed  his  voice 
Deep  sounding  to  the  spiritual  ear  — 

And  this  its  message:  Let  love  in  thee  burn, 
Here  learn  in  holy  beauty  to  rejoice, 
Here  learn  true  living,  and  the  song  sincere. 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 
i 

RHYMERS  and  writers  of  our  day, 
Too  much  of  melancholy! 
Give  us  the  old  heroic  lay; 


294  POEMS   AND  INSCRIPTIONS 

A  whiff  of  wholesome  folly; 
The  escapade,  the  dance; 
A  touch  of  wild  romance: 
Wake  from  this  self-conscious  fit; 
Give  us  again  Sir  Walter's  wit; 
His  love  of  earth,  of  sky,  of  life; 
His  ringing  page  with  humor  rife; 
His  never- weary  pen; 
His  love  of  men ! 

ii 

Builder  of  landscape,  who  could  make 
Turret  and  tower  their  stations  take 
Brave  in  the  face  of  the  sun; 
Of  many  a  mimic  world  creator, 
Alive  with  fight  and  strenuous  fun; 
Of  nothing  human  he  the  hater. 
Nobly  could  he  plan: 
Master  of  nature,  master  of  man. 

m 

Sometimes  I  think  that  He  who  made  us, 
And  on  this  pretty  planet  laid  us, 
Made  us  to  work  and  play 
Like  children  in  the  light  of  day  — 
Not  like  plodders  in  the  dark, 
Searching  with  lanterns  for  some  mark 
To  find  the  way. 
After  the  stroke  of  pain, 
Up  and  to  work  again! 

IV 

Such  was  his  life,  without  reproach  or  fear: 
A  lonely  fight  before  the  last  eclipse  — 


A   DAY   IN    TUSCANY  295 

A  broken  heart,  a  smile  upon  the  lips; 

And,  at  the  end, 

When  Heaven  bent  down  and  whispered  in  his  ear 

The  word  God's  saints  waited  and  longed  to  hear, 

I  ween  he  was  as  quick  as  they  to  comprehend; 

And,  when  he  past  beyond  the  goal, 

Entered  the  gates  of  pearl  no  sweeter  soul. 

A  DAY  IN  TUSCANY 


I  KNEW  the  Rucellai  had  choice  of  villas: 

This  day  has  proved  it,  this  thrice  happy  day 

Stolen  from  care,  and  many  a  saddened  thought. 

Have  we  not  seen,  we  wanderers  from  afar, 

Fountained  Caneto,  standing  watch  and  ward 

Over  Bisenzio's  lovely,  curving  vale!  — 

Caneto,  olive-cinctured,  cypress-crowned, 

And  wreathed  in  vine;  Caneto,  whose  high  hall 

Bears  record  of  a  proud  and  noble  race, 

Friendly  to  art  and  letters  (Cimabue 

Be  witness  paramount;  and  the  brave  front 

Of  Santa  Maria  Novella;  the  Academe 

That  in  the  Garden  of  the  Rucellai 

Relit  the  Athenian  fire!).    Yes,  Edith  dear, 

I  love  Caneto  well,  but  well  I  love 

This  "Villa  of  the  Little  Fields,"  that  hides 

Embowered  among  its  farms;  in  rose  and  lilac 

Radiant  and  scented  like  an  April  bride; 

'Mid  busy  sounds  secluded  and  remote. 

But  most  I  love  this  tower  you  call  my  own, 

This  musing  tower  that  wins  the  soul  to  song, 

From  whose  four  windows,  see!  the  Apennines 

Make  a  walled  paradise  of  Tuscany. 


296  POEMS  AND  INSCRIPTIONS 

n 

Beyond  the  ilex-dome,  against  the  west, 

The  sunset  sky  was  crimson:  "Then,"  you  say, 

"Fair  is  to-morrow,  if  the  sky  was  red." 

"Fair  is  to-morrow"?  O,  to-morrow  fair 
That  wakes  me  from  this  dream?  —  Here  from  my 

tower 

One  planet  marks  where  Prato  lies  below, 
And  yonder,  through  the  tender  gray  and  green 
Of  the  high-branching  plane-tree,  shines  a  light 
Betwixt  the  earth  and  heaven  —  a  lure  that  means 
Florence,  and  all  its  wonder;  now,  ah,  now 
The  hour  draws  nigh  when  Italy  once  more 
To  me  is  of  the  past,  a  thought,  a  passion, 
But  all  ungrasped  of  sense. 
And  what  is  that  our  Cosimo  has  said? 

"To-day  the  nightingales  have  come."  — Have  come? 
And  I,  tho'  listening  long,  and  with  my  soul, 
I  have  not  heard  one  tone. 

In  the  Tower  at  CAMPI  BISENZIO. 

A  SACRED  COMEDY  IN  FLORENCE 

IN   WHICH  TAKES   PART  A  CERTAIN   STATUE  ON  THE 
FACADE   OF   THE   DUOMO 

LONELY  Pope  upon  his  throne, 
Cold  in  marble,  high  in  air, 
On  the  Duomo's  checkered  front  — 
Benediction,  as  is  wont, 
Falling  from  his  saintly  face 
Down  upon  the  clattering  square: 
Falls,  to-day,  a  special  grace, 
For,  in  fact,  he  's  not  alone  — 
Solemn  Pope  upon  his  throne, 


THE    OLD   MASTER  297 

White  in  marble,  cold  in  air !  — 
To  those  priestly  fingers  there, 
Lifted  o'er  the  peopled  square, 
A  purple  pigeon  sudden  flits, 
Lightly  'lights  and  lingering  sits. 
By  the  Baptistery  gates, 
Where  I  stand,  I  can  but  smile, 
Thinking  that  the  potentate's 
Lips  are  curving,  too,  the  while; 
And  I  wonder  what  the  bird 
Said  that  Papa,  smiling,  heard. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO'S  AURORA 

THE  MEDICI  CHAPEL,   FLORENCE 

O  MAJESTY  and  loveliness  in  one! 
Why  art  thou  sorrowful,  now  night  is  done? 
This  is  the  dawn;  why  doth  thy  spirit  quake? 
O  thou  who  wakenest!  is  it  pain  to  wake? 

THE   OLD   MASTER 

OF  his  dear  Lord  he  painted  all  the  life, 
But  not  that  ancient  land,  nor  the  old  days; 
Not  curious  he  to  seek,  through  learned  strife, 
The  look  of  those  far  times  and  unknown  ways. 

But  in  his  solemn  and  long-living  art 

Well  did  he  paint  that  which  can  neve?  die : 
The  life  and  passion  of  the  human  heart, 
Unchanged  while  sorrowing  age  on  age  goes  by. 

Beneath  his  brush  his  own  loved  people  grew, 
Their  rivers  and  their  mountains,  saints  and  lords; 
The  dark  Italian  mothers  whom  he  knew, 


298  POEMS   AND  INSCRIPTIONS 

The  sad-eyed  nuns,  the  warriors  with  drawn  swords ; 
And  the  young  Savior,  throned  at  Mary's  breast, 
Was  but  some  little  child  whom  he  loved  best. 

AT  LUTHER'S   GRAVE 

WITTENBERG 

HERE  rests  the  heart  whose  throbbing  shook  the  earth ! 
High  soul  of  courage,  we  do  owe  thee  much ; 
Thee  and  thy  warrior  comrades,  who  the  worth 
Of  freedom  proved  and  put  it  to  the  touch ! 

Because,  O  Luther,  thou  the  truth  didst  love, 
And  spake  the  truth  out,—  faced  the  sceptered  lie, — 
E'en  we,  thy  unforgetting  heirs,  may  move 
Fearless,  erect,  unshackled,  'neath  the  sky. 

Yet  at  this  shrine  who  doth  forever  linger 

Shall  know  not  that  true  freedom  Luther  won; 
"  Onward,"  his  spirit  points,  with  lifted  finger, 
"  Onward  lies  truth !    My  work  were  never  done 
If  souls  by  me  awakened  climbed  not  higher  — 
Ever  to  seek,  and  fear  not,  the  celestial  fire." 

BEETHOVEN 

VIENNA 

I  CAME  to  a  great  city.   Palaces 

Rose  glittering,  mile  on  mile.   Here  dwells  the  King, 

The  Emperor  and  King;  here  lived,  here  ruled 

How  many  mountainous  far-looming  fames; 

Here  is  the  crown  of  shadowy  Charlemagne. 

What  housing  of  what  glorious  dignities! 

Yet  in  a  narrow  street,  unfrequented, 

No  palace  near  —  one  name  upon  a  wall, 

And  all  these  majesties  seem  small  and  shrunk: 

For  here  unto  the  bitter  end  abode 


EGYPT  299 

He  who  from  pain  wrought  noble  joy  for  men; 
He  who  from  silence  gave  the  world  to  song; 
For  in  his  mind  an  awful  music  rose 
As  when,  in  darkness  of  the  under-seas, 
Currents  tremendous  over  currents  pour. 
He  heard  the  soundless  tone,  its  voice  he  was, 
And  he  of  vast  humanity  the  voice, 
And  his  the  empire  of  the  human  soul. 

THE  DESERT 

SOULS  live  for  whom  the  illimitable  sands 

Not  lonely  are;  they  see  white,  phantom  hands 

Beckoning  in  spectral  twilights,  and  they  hear 

Voices  that  come  not  to  another  ear. 

The  mystic  desert  calls  them,  as  doth  call 

The  sea  to  those  who  once  have  known  its  thrall  — 

The  desert  that  (like  to  the  eternal  sea) 

Creates  a  visible  infinity; 

There,  where  the  day  its  quivering  fire  outpours, 

A  silent  ocean  breaks  on  silent  shores. 

Who  would  be  wise  — 

Let  him  consort  with  Time  'neath  desert  skies. 

EGYPT 

I  THOUGHT,  in  Egypt,  Death  was  more  than  Life, 
It  seemed  so  long;  its  monuments  so  great; 
The  emptiness  of  tombs  was  such  high  state, — 
No  living  thought,  or  power,  or  potentate 
So  glorious  seemed,  wrapt  in  such  splendid  gloom. 
For  I  perceived  that  in  each  ancient  tomb, 
Long  ages  since,  dead  kings  for  Death  made  room. 
Not  here  the  Dead,  but  Death  —  alone,  supreme : 
In  Egypt  Death  was  real  —  Life  a  winged  Dream. 


300  POEMS  AND  INSCRIPTIONS 

SYRIA 

I  THOUGHT  in  Syria,  Life  was  more  than  Death. 

A  tomb  there  was  forsaken  of  its  dead, 

But  Death  filled  not  the  place;  here  with  bowed  head 

Worships  the  world  forever  at  the  tread 

Of  one  who  lived,  who  liveth,  and  shall  live  — 

Whose  grave  is  but  a  footstep  on  the  sod; 

Men  kiss  the  ground  where  living  feet  have  trod. 

Here  not  to  Death  but  Life,  they  worship  give. 

August  is  Death,  but  this  one  tomb  is  rife 

With  a  more  mighty  presence;  it  is  Life. 


THE  DEAD  POET 

A.  H. 

His  was  the  love  of  art  and  song, 
And  well  he  loved  the  flowery  way; 

Yet  great  his  wrath  at  prospered  wrong; 
When  evil  triumphed  day  by  day 
Then  plunged  he  in  the  fray. 

And  when  brave  innocence  went  down 
Then  did  the  vanquished  find  a  friend. 

With  him  went  justice  through  the  town; 
No  foeman  ever  saw  him  bend; 
He  scorn  for  scorn  could  send. 

Men  said  his  heritage  was  lost ; 
For,  born  to  gentler  use,  his  youth 

Was  wasted  in  rude  strife;  the  cost 
Too  great,  they  deemed,  altho',  in  sooth, 
Through  him  men  learned  of  Truth. 


WAR  301 

So  were  his  songs  but  brief  and  few; 

Yet  of  some  lives  they  were  a  part, 
And  on  some  souls  they  fell  like  dew; 

Dead  —  now  men  say :  he  gave  to  art 

The  epic  of  the  heart. 

WAR 


Two  men  on  thrones,  or  crouched  behind, 
With  cunning  words  the  world  would  blind. 
With  faces  grave,  averse  from  spoils, 
They  weave  their  thieving,  cynic  toils. 
One  thing  they  mean,  another  speak; 
Bland  phrases  utter,  tongue  in  cheek. 
Stale  truths  turn  lies  on  velvet  lips; 
The  candid  heavens  are  in  eclipse; 
From  crooked  minds,  and  hearts  all  black, 
Comes  WAR  upon  its  flaming  track, 
And  reeking  fiends  in  happy  hell 
Shout,  "All  is  well!" 

ii 

Then  lives  surprise! 
While  not  a  devil  dares  to  shirk, 
But  all  his  hellish  malice  plies  — 
The  angels,  too,  begin  their  work. 
Now  every  virtue  issues  forth 
And  busy  is  from  south  to  north: 
Self-sacrifice,  and  love,  and  pity 
Tramp  all  the  rounds  in  field  and  city; 
Mercy  beyond  a  price,  sweet  ruth, 
Courage  and  comradeship  and  truth,     • 


302  POEMS  AND  INSCRIPTIONS 

And  gentlest  deed  and  noblest  thought, 
Into  the  common  day  are  brought. 
Man  lives  at  heaven's  gate,  and  dies 
For  fellow-man  with  joyful  cries. 


in 

And  all  the  while  hell's  imps  are  free 
To  work  their  will  with  fearful  glee. 
The  beast  in  man  anew  is  born; 
Revenge,  and  lust,  and  pride,  and  scorn, 
And  glory  false,  and  hateful  hate, 
All  join  to  desecrate  the  state. 

THE  BLAMELESS  KNIGHT 

WHERE  led  the  bright  and  blameless  plume 
We  charged  the  shameless  foe; 

Whether  to  win  or  lose  our  doom 
We  never  cared  to  know. 

His  voice  was  as  a  scimitar, 

Superb  and  sure  his  stroke; 
And  where  he  came  their  men-of-war 

In  panic  fury  broke. 

Once  more  we  gathered  for  the  fight 

Against  the  ranks  of  shame; 
Again  we  called  the  blameless  knight 

And  cheered  him  as  he  came. 

But,  God  of  grace !  not  with  us  now 

Our  valiant  knight  doth  go : 
A  plume  of  black  above  his  brow  — 

He  leads  the  shameless  foe ! 


THE   TOOL  303 

They  are  the  same,  that  shameful  horde, 

The  same  their  shameless  song; 
Beneath  his  shield  they  draw  the  sword 

For  rapine  and  for  wrong. 

Fight  on!  fight  on!  brave  comrades  all, 

Nor  weep  the  blameless  knight ; 
They  cannot  fail,  what  tho'  they  fall, 

Who  battle  for  the  right. 

One  Captain  less  in  our  good  war, 

But  see!  a  thousand  spring 
Intent  as  never  men  before 

To  strike  the  Accursed  Thing. 


THE  DEMAGOGUE 

ALL  mouth,  no  mind ;  a  mindless  mouth  in  sooth ; 

He  does  not  bend  his  strength  to  seek  the  truth, 

But,  shrewdly  guessing  what  may  take  the  crowd, 

With  tragic  grimace,  this  he  shouts  aloud. 

No  true  opinion,  no  fixed  faith  has  he, 

But  gravely  simulates  sincerity. 

His  many  causes  swift  resolve  to  one: 

You  find  him  his  own  cause  when  all  is  done. 

THE  TOOL 

THE  man  of  brains,  of  fair  repute,  and  birth, 
Who  loves  high  place  above  all  else  of  earth ; 
Who  loves  it  so,  he  '11  go  without  the  power 
If  he  may  hold  the  semblance  but  an  hour ; 
Willing  to  be  some  sordid  creature's  tool 
So  he  but  seem  a  little  while  to  rule; 
On  him  even  moral  pigmies  would  look  down; 
Were  prizes  given  for  shame,  he'd  wear  the  crown. 


304  POEMS  AND   INSCRIPTIONS 

THE  NEW  POLITICIAN 

WHILE  others  hedged,  or  silent  lay, 

He  to  the  people  spoke  all  day; 

Ay,  and  he  said  precisely  what 

He  thought;  each  time  he  touched  the  spot. 

"  In  heaven's  name,  what  does  he  mean ! 
Was  ever  such  blind  folly  seen!" 
The  wag-beard  politicians  cried: 

"Can  no  one  stop  the  man?"  they  sighed. 

"This  'talking  frankly'  may  be  fun, 
But  when  have  such  mad  tactics  won? 
He  may  be  happy,  but  the  cost 
Is  ours!    The  whole  election's  lost!" 

And  still  the  people  at  his  feet 
Followed  and  cheered  from  street  to  street. 
Truly  this  ne'er  was  known  before : 
No  soldier,  sailor,  orator, 
No  hero  home  from  battle  he 
Whom  welcoming  thousands  rush  to  see; 
But  just  a  man  who  dared  to  take 
His  stand  on  justice,  make  or  break; 
'T  was  all  because  the  people  found 
A  man  by  no  conventions  bound; 
Who  sought  to  heal  their  black  disgrace 
By  treating  rich  and  poor  the  same, 
Giving  to  crime  its  ugly  name, 
Damning  the  guilty  to  their  face. 

And  when  the  votes,  at  last,  were  read 
Our  candidate  ran  clear  ahead! 
This  be  his  glory  and  renown : 
He  told  the  truth  —  and  took  the  town. 


SONG  305 

A  LADY  TO   A  KNIGHT 

SIR  Knight,  thou  lovest  not, 
If  thou  wouldst  be  too  dear; 

And  I  less  worshipful,  I  wot, 
If  thou  couldst  kneel  so  near! 

So  must  thy  shield  of  flawless  fame 

Shine  clear  in  honor's  light; 
Lest  I  should  know  a  queenly  shame 

To  find  thee  less  a  knight. 

"IS  HOPE  A  PHANTOM?" 

Is  Hope  a  phantom?    Holds  the  crystal  cup 

Sweet  madness  only  —  an  we  drink  it  up  ? 

A  respite  ere  the  poor,  doomed  soul  is  killed? 

—  Then  spake  one  who  had  loved :  "  Hope  is  no  lie, 

But  real  as  answered  Love,  or  unfulfilled  ; 

Yet  were  Hope  phantom-false,  still  would  I  cry, 

1  Hail,  Thou  Bright  Poisoner  I  let  me  drink,  and  die  I ' " 

SONG 

IF,  lest  thy  heart  betray  thee, 
Thou  to  one  lover  wouldst  not  constant  be, 
And  yet  thou  couldst  love  me  — 
This  boon  I  pray  thee: 
Divide  the  dark  from  light, 
Love  me  by  night. 

If  thy  sweet  thought  would  find  me, 
Not  through  the  garish  day,  O,  give  it  wing: 
In  shadows  clasp  and  cling, 


306  POEMS   AND   INSCRIPTIONS 

And  bless  and  blind  me ! 

When  stars  are  still  and  bright  — 

Love  me  by  night. 

In  longing  dreams  I'll  name  thee; 
In  secret  hours,  when  breathes  the  midnight  rose, 
Thy  heart  in  mine  shall  close, 
Great  love  shall  claim  thee: 
O  mine  in  dark  and  light, 
In  day  and  night! 

MEMORY 

INTO  this  musing,  Memory!  thou  hast  brought 

Me,  thy  true  vassal;  into  this  delight 

That  is  more  poignant  for  the  haunting  grief; 

And  as  thou  leadest  on  I  follow,  follow, 

Down  the  deep,  woody  pathway  of  my  dream, 

Feeling  the  breath  of  flowers  colorless 

And  airs  that  change  their  seasons  as  I  wander, 

Falling  or  cool  or  warm  upon  the  brow. 

The  river  shimmers  'twixt  the  shadowy  boles; 

Scarce  seen  the  stars  for  the  high,  monstrous  leaves 

That  make  a  lovers'  screen;  while  the  large  moon, 

Late  risen,  sends  three  beams  athwart  the  path. 

It  is  not  night,  nor  day,  it  is  the  time 

Of  the  clear  spirit's  life;  the  soul's  high  noon; 

The  hour  most  fit  for  passion's  holy  birth. 

O  mellow  eve,  unstartled  by  a  bird! 

O  night  whose  light  is  deepening  up  the  sky ! 

*T  was  such  a  night  when  one  low-murmured  word,  — 
A  word  all  miracle,  —  made  of  my  soul 
Naught  but  a  singing  rapture. 


JANET  307 

"O,   GLORIOUS  SABBATH  SUN" 

i 

O,  GLORIOUS  Sabbath  sun,  thou  art 
A  balm  and  blessing  to  my  heart; 
Dark  sorrow  flies,  and  in  thy  shine 
Bursts  o'er  the  world  a  flood  divine. 

ii 

So  may  the  light  beyond  the  skies 
Illume  and  bless  my  inward  eyes, 
That  each  new  day  may  bring  to  me 
The  splendor  of  eternity. 

MOTTO   FOR  A  TREE-PLANTING 

STAY  as  the  tree  —  go  as  the  wind ; 
Whate'er  thy  place,  serve  God  and  kind! 

The  tree  holds  commerce  with  the  skies 
Tho'  from  its  place  it  never  flies. 

They  serve  their  God;  they  do  not  roam, 
The  stormy  winds  that  have  no  home. 

JANET 

I  REMEMBER 

That  November 

When  the  new  November  child 

On  this  old  world  woke  and  smiled. 

Here  's  a  woman, 
Sweet  and  human, 
And  they  call  her  Janet,  now  — 
I  can't  make  it  out,  I  vow. 


308  POEMS  AND  INSCRIPTIONS 

It  only  seems 
One  night  of  dreams; 
Years  they  say;  how  do  they  plan  it? 
What's  become  of  Little  Janet? 

Never  mind; 
She's  good;  she's  kind; 
Age  can  never  bend  or  win  her; 
There's  a  heart  of  youth  within  her. 

ON  BEING  ASKED  FOR  A  SONG 

CONCERNING  THE  DEDICATION  OF  A  MOUNTAIN  IN  SAMOA 
TO  THE   MEMORY  OF   STEVENSON 

A  Letter  to  I.  O.  S. 

BUT,  friend  of  mine, —  and  his, —  I  am  afraid! 

How  can  I  make  a  song 

When  the  true  song  is  made! 

For  this  you  say: 

Because  that  Tusitala  loved  the  birds, 

They  who  named  Tusitala  (weaver  of  charmed  words  — 

Teller  of  Tales) 

Have  given  his  mountain  to  the  birds  forever! 

There  all  day  long 

Bright-plumaged  island-birds  make  gay  the  dales, 

From  off  the  sea  the  swift  white  bosun  over  the  mountain 

sails, 

From  many  a  large-leaved  tree 
The  gray  dove  cooes  its  low,  insistent  song. 
From  those  green  hights  and  vales 
They  shall  be  absent  never  — 
To  show  what  love  can  be  from  man  to  man. 
Lovers  of  Birds  and  Poets  —  this  is  glory ! 
It  is  a  poem, —  that  which  these  Chiefs  have  done,  — 


TO   L.  R.  S.  309 

In  memory  of  him,  the  only  one. 

And  yet  our  Tusitala  could  have  sung  again  the  pretty 

story  — 
Alas,  none  other  can! 

TO  AUSTIN  DOBSON 

LAUREATE  of  the  Gentle  Heart ! 

Only  art  like  your  own  art, 

Limpid,  gracious,  happy-phrased, 

Could  praise  you  as  you  should  be  praised. 

Many  a  lyric  you  have  writ, 

Grave  with  pathos,  gay  with  wit, 

Or  conceived  in  larger  mood, 

Shall  outlast  the  clattering  brood 

That  usurp  our  noisy  day; 

Shall,  with  all  that's  noble,  stay 

In  our  well-loved  English  tongue 

Till  the  ending  song  is  sung; 

For  no  purer  tone  was  heard 

Since  men  sought  Beauty  and  the  Word. 

TO  L.   R.   S. 

LISA  Romana !  no  mean  city  gave 
Thee  to  the  world,  sired  by  as  true  a  knight 
As  e'er  the  flying  paynim's  helmet  clave, 
Leading  a  hope  forlorn  in  glorious  fight ! 

And  thou,  dear,  stately  maid,  no  knight  of  old, 
That  eastward  battles  down  the  pleasant  page 
Of  chivalry,  ever  in  heart  did  hold 
A  queenlier  image  —  face  more  brightly  grave. 

Be  kind  to  her,  ye  seas,  ye  winds  that  blow, 
On  the  long  journey  homeward,  and  one  day, 
Ocean  and  wild  sea- winds!  swift  make  return 


310  POEMS   AND  INSCRIPTIONS 

Of  her  ye  take  from  us;  —  ay,  let  her  yearn 
Back,  back  to  us  once  more;  before  this  gray 
Whitens,  and  hearts  that  love  her  are  laid  low. 

A  NAME 

MANY  the  names,  the  souls,  the  faces  dear 
That  I  have  longed  to  frame  in  verse  sincere; 
But  one  high  name,  sweet  soul,  and  face  of  love 
Seemed  ever  my  poor  art,  O,  far  above. 
Like  Mary's,  stricken  with  sorrow  was  that  face; 
Like  hers  it  wore  a  most  majestic  grace. 
That  soul  was  tender  as  the  sunset  sky, 
And  full  of  lofty  dream  her  days  went  by; 
That  name  —  than  God's  alone  there  is  no  other 
Holy  as  thine  to  me,  O  sacred  Mother! 

JOHN  GEORGE  NICOLAY 

WASHINGTON,   D.    C.,   SEPTEMBER,    IQOI 

THIS  man  loved  Lincoln,  him  did  Lincoln  love; 

Through  the  long  storm,  right  there,  by  Lincoln's  side, 
He  stood,  his  shield  and  servitor;  when  died 

The  great,  sweet,  sorrowful  soul  —  still  high  above 

All  other  passions,  love  for  the  spirit  fled! 
To  this  one  task  his  pure  life  was  assigned: 
He  strove  to  make  the  world  know  Lincoln's  mind: 

He  served  him  living,  and  he  served  him  dead. 
So  shall  the  light  from  that  immortal  fame 
Keep  bright  forever  this  most  faithful  name. 

THE   COMFORT   OF  THE  TREES 

McKINLEY:   SEPTEMBER,    IQOI 

GENTLE  and  generous,  brave-hearted,  kind, 
And  full  of  love  and  trust  was  he,  our  chief; 


THE   CITY    OF   LIGHTS  311 

He  never  harmed  a  soul !   O,  dull  and  blind 
And  cruel,  the  hand  that  smote,  beyond  belief! 

Strike  him?  It  could  not  be!    Soon  should  we  find 
'T  was  but  a  torturing  dream  —  our  sudden  grief ! 
Then  sobs  and  wailings  down  the  northern  wind 
Like  the  wild  voice  of  shipwreck  from  a  reef! 

By  false  hope  lulled  (his  courage  gave  us  hope !) 
By  day,  by  night  we  watched  —  until  unfurled 
At  last  the  word  of  fate!  Our  memories 

Cherish  one  tender  thought  in  their  sad  scope: 
He,  looking  from  the  window  on  this  world, 
Found  comfort  in  the  moving  green  of  trees. 

THE  CITY  OF  LIGHT 

THE  PAN-AMERICAN  EXPOSITION 

WHAT  shall  we  name  it 

As  is  our  bounden  duty  — 

This  new,  swift-builded  fairy  city  of  Beauty; 

What  name  that  shall  not  shame  it; 

Shall  make  it  live  beyond  its  too  short  living 

With  praises  and  thanksgiving ! 

Its  name  —  how  shall  we  doubt  it, 

We  who  have  seen,  when  the  blue  darkness  falls, 

Leap  into  lines  of  light  its  domes,  and  spires,  and  walls, 

Pylons,  and  colonnades,  and  towers, 

All  garlanded  with  starry  flowers ! 

Its  name  —  what  heart  that  did  not  shout  it 

When,  from  afar,  flamed  sudden  against  the  night 

The  City  of  Light! 

AMHERST  HOUSE,  BUFFALO,  May,  1901. 


INSCRIPTIONS 

FOR  THE 

PAN-AMERICAN  EXPOSITION 

BUFFALO,   1901 


INSCRIPTIONS 

FOR  THE  PROPYL^A 
PANEL  I 

HERE,  BY  THE  GREAT  WATERS 
OF  THE  NORTH,  ARE  BROUGHT 
TOGETHER  THE  PEOPLES  OF  THE 
TWO  AMERICAS,  IN  EXPOSITION 
OF  THEIR  RESOURCES,  INDUS 
TRIES,  PRODUCTS,  INVENTIONS, 
ARTS,  AND  IDEAS 

PANEL  II 

THAT  THE  CENTURY  NOW  BEGUN 
MAY  UNITE  IN  THE  BONDS  OF 
PEACE,  KNOWLEDGE,  GOOD-WILL, 
FRIENDSHIP,  AND  NOBLE  EMULA 
TION  ALL  THE  DWELLERS  ON 
THE  CONTINENTS  AND  ISLANDS 
OF  THE  NEW  WORLD 

FOR   THE   STADIUM 
PANEL  I 

NOT  IGNOBLE  ARE  THE  DAYS  OF 

PEACE,  NOT  WITHOUT  COURAGE 

AND  LAURELED  VICTORIES 


316  POEMS   AND  INSCRIPTIONS 

PANEL   II 

HE    WHO     FAILS     BRAVELY    HAS 
NOT  TRULY  FAILED,  BUT  IS  HIM 
SELF  ALSO  A  CONQUEROR 

PANEL  III 

WHO  SHUNS  THE  DUST  AND 

SWEAT  OF  THE  CONTEST,  ON 

HIS  BROW  FALLS  NOT  THE  COOL 

SHADE  OF  THE  OLIVE 

FOR  THE  GREAT  PYLONS 

OF  THE  TRIUMPHAL 

CAUSEWAY 

ON  THE  PYLONS  WERE  STATUES 
OF  COURAGE,  LIBERTY,  TOLER 
ANCE,  TRUTH,  BENEVOLENCE, 
PATRIOTISM,  HOSPITALITY,  AND 
JUSTICE 


PANEL  I 

THE    SPIRIT    OF    ADVENTURE    IS 
THE       MAKER       OF       COMMON 
WEALTHS 

PANEL  II 

FREEDOM    IS    BUT    THE    FIRST 
LESSON  IN   SELF-GOVERNMENT 


FOR    THE    GREAT   PYLONS  317 

PANEL   III 

RELIGIOUS  TOLERANCE  A  SAFE 
GUARD   OF  CIVIL  LIBERTY 

PANEL  IV 

A  FREE  STATE  EXISTS   ONLY  IN 
THE  VIRTUE  OF  THE  CITIZEN 

PANEL  V 

WHO  GIVES  WISELY  BUILDS  MAN 
HOOD    AND    THE    STATE  — WHO 
GIVES    HIMSELF    GIVES    BEST 

PANEL  VI 

TO  LOVE  ONE'S  COUNTRY  ABOVE 

ALL  OTHERS  IS  NOT  TO  DESPISE 

ALL   OTHERS 

PANEL  VII 

THE     BROTHERHOOD    OF     MAN, 

THE   FEDERATION   OF   NATIONS, 

THE   PEACE   OF  THE  WORLD 

PANEL  VIII 

BETWEEN  NATION  AND  NATION, 
AS  BETWEEN  MAN  AND  MAN, 
LIVES  THE  ONE  LAW  OF  RIGHT 


318  POEMS  AND  INSCRIPTIONS 

DEDICATORY  INSCRIPTIONS 
PANEL  I 

TO  THE  ANCIENT  RACES  OF 
AMERICA,  FOR  WHOM  THE  NEW 
WORLD  WAS  THE  OLD,  THAT 
THEIR  LOVE  OF  FREEDOM  AND 
OF  NATURE,  THEIR  HARDY  COUR 
AGE,  THEIR  MONUMENTS,  ARTS, 
LEGENDS,  AND  STRANGE  SONGS 
MAY  NOT  PERISH  AND  BE 
FORGOTTEN 

PANEL  II 

TO  THE  EXPLORERS  AND  PIO 
NEERS  WHO  BLAZED  THE  WEST 
WARD  PATH  OF  CIVILIZATION, 
TO  THE  SOLDIERS  AND  SAILORS 
WHO  FOUGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 
AND  FOR  PEACE,  AND  TO  THE 
CIVIC  HEROES  WHO  SAVE  A 
PRICELESS  HERITAGE 

PANEL  III 

TO  THE  GREAT  INVENTORS  AND 
FARSEEING  PROJECTORS,  TO  THE 
ENGINEERS,  MANUFACTURERS, 
AGRICULTURISTS,  AND  MER 
CHANTS  WHO  HAVE  DEVELOPED 
THE  RESOURCES  OF  THE  NEW 
WORLD,  AND  MULTIPLIED  THE 
HOMES  OF  FREEMEN 


DEDICATORY    INSCRIPTIONS  319 

PANEL   IV 

TO  THOSE  WHO  IN  THE  DEADLY 
MINE,  ON  STORMY  SEAS,  IN  THE 
FIERCE  BREATH  OF  THE  FUR 
NACE,  AND  IN  ALL  PERILOUS 
PLACES  WORKING  CEASELESSLY 
BRING  TO  THEIR  FELLOW  MEN 
COMFORT,  SUSTENANCE,  AND 
THE  GRACE  OF  LIFE 

PANEL  V 

TO  THE  SCHOLARS  AND  LABORI 
OUS  INVESTIGATORS  WHO,  IN 
THE  OLD  WORLD  AND  THE  NEW, 
GUARD  THE  LAMP  OF  KNOW 
LEDGE  AND,  CENTURY  BY  CEN 
TURY,  INCREASE  THE  SAFETY  OF 
LIFE,  ENLIGHTEN  THE  MIND  AND 
ENLARGE  THE  SPIRIT  OF  MAN 

PANEL  VI 

TO  THOSE  PAINTERS,  SCULPTORS, 
AND  ARCHITECTS,  TELLERS  OF 
TALES,  POETS,  AND  CREATORS  OF 
MUSIC,  TO  THOSE  ACTORS  AND 
MUSICIANS  WHO  IN  THE  NEW 
WORLD  HAVE  CHERISHED  AND 
INCREASED  THE  LOVE  OF 
BEAUTY 


320  POEMS   AND  INSCRIPTIONS 

PANEL   VII 

TO  THE  PROPHETS  AND  HEROES, 
TO  THE  MIGHTY  POETS  AND  DI 
VINE  ARTISTS,  AND  TO  ALL  THE 
LIGHTBEARERS  OF  THE  ANCIENT 
WORLD  WHO  INSPIRED  OUR 
FOREFATHERS  AND  SHALL  LEAD 
AND  ENLIGHTEN  OUR  CHIL 
DREN'S  CHILDREN 

PANEL  VIII 

TO  THE  STATESMEN,  PHILOSO 
PHERS,  TEACHERS,  AND  PREACH 
ERS,  AND  TO  ALL  THOSE  WHO,  IN 
THE  NEW  WORLD,  HAVE  UPHELD 
THE  IDEALS  OF  LIBERTY  AND 
JUSTICE,  AND  HAVE  BEEN  FAITH 
FUL  TO  THE  THINGS  THAT  ARE 
ETERNAL 


"IN   THE    RIGHTS" 


"IN  THE  RIGHTS" 


"IN  THE  MIGHTS" 

ONE  who  this  valley  passionately  loved 

No  more  these  slopes  shall  climb,   nor  hear  these 
streams 

That,  like  the  murmured  melody  of  dreams, 
His  happy  spirit  moved. 

He  knew  the  sudden  and  mysterious  thrill 

That  takes  the  heart  of  man  on  mountain  hights, 

These  autumn  days  that  flame  from  hill  to  hill, 
These  deep  and  starry  nights. 

O  vanished  spirit!  tell  us,  if  so  may  be, 
Are  our  wild  longings,  stirred  by  scenes  like  this  — 

Our  deep-breathed,  shadowless  felicity  — 
A  mocking,  empty  bliss? 

No  answering  word,  save  from  the  inmost  soul 
That  cries:  all  things  are  real  —  beauty,  youth; 

All  the  heart  feels;  of  sorrow  and  joy  the  whole; 
That  which  but  seems  is  truth. 

This  mortal  frame,  that  harbors  the  immortal, 

Mechanic  tho'  it  be,  in  our  life's  fires 
Turns  spiritual;  it  becomes  the  portal 

Wherethrough  the  soul  aspires. 

The  soul's  existence  in  its  human  sheath 
Is  life  no  more  than  is  the  spirit's  life 


324  IN  THE  EIGHTS 

In  this  wide  nature  whose  keen  air  we  breathe; 
Whose  strife  arms  us  to  strife. 

And  they  are  wise  who  seek  not  to  destroy 

The  unreasoned  happiness  of  the  outpoured  year. 

To  him,  the  lost,  this  vale  brought  no  false  joy, 
And  therefore  is  most  dear. 

Wherever  in  the  majesty  of  space, 
Near  or  afar,  but  not  from  God  afar, 

Where'er  his  spirit  soars,  whatever  grace 
Is  his,  whatever  star  — 

The  aspirations  and  imaginings 

That  in  these  glorious  paths  his  soul  sublimed, 
They  are  a  part  of  him;  they  are  the  wings 

Whereby  he  strove  and  climbed. 

Nature  to  man  not  alien  doth  endure; 

Her  spirit  in  his  spirit  is  transfused; 
On  this  high  mystery  dream  the  humble-pure, 

The  mightiest  poets  mused. 

The  white  clouds  billow  down  the  blowing  sky, 
Then,  O  my  heart,  be  lifted  up,  rejoice ! 
The  trumpet  of  the  winds,  to  that  wild  voice 

Let  all  my  soul  reply! 

HOME  ACRES 

A  SENSE  of  pureness  in  the  air, 

Of  wholesome  life  in  growing  things; 
Waving  of  blossom,  blade,  and  wings; 

Perfume  and  beauty  everywhere; 

Sky,  trees,  the  grass,  the  very  loam  — 

I  love  them  all;  this  is  our  home. 


A   CALL    TO    THE    MOUNTAINS  325 

God!  make  me  worthy  of  Thy  land 
Which  mine  I  call  a  little  while; 
This  meadow  where  the  sunset's  smile 

Falls  like  a  blessing  from  Thy  hand, 

And  where  the  river  singing  runs 

'Neath  wintry  skies  and  summer  suns! 

Million  on  million  years  have  sped 

To  frame  green  fields  and  bowering  hills : 
The  mortal  for  a  moment  tills 

His  span  of  earth,  then  is  he  dead: 

This  knows  he  well,  yet  doth  he  hold 

His  paradise  like  miser's  gold. 

I  would  be  nobler  than  to  clutch 
My  little  world  with  gloating  grasp; 
Now,  while  I  live,  my  hands  unclasp, 

Or  let  me  hold  it  not  so  much 

For  my  own  joy  as  for  the  good 

Of  all  the  gentle  brotherhood. 

And  as  the  seasons  move  in  mirth 
Of  bloom  and  bird,  of  snow  and  leaf, 
May  my  calm  spirit  rise  from  grief, 

In  solace  of  the  lovely  earth; 

And  tho'  the  land  be  dark  or  lit, 

O,  let  me  gather  songs  from  it. 

A  CALL  TO  THE  MOUNTAINS 

I  CALLED  you  once  to  the  sea, 

Come  now  to  the  mountains; 
Climb  the  earth's  ramparts  with  me, 

Drink  her  deep  fountains! 

On  the  food  that  you  love  make  merry; 
Forget  grind  and  grief 


326  IN  THE  RIGHTS 

In  the  red  and  the  tang  of  the  berry, 
The  bronze  of  the  leaf. 

Chestnuts  are  ripe  on  the  bough, 
And  the  burrs  all  are  bursting; 

For  a  tramp  with  you,  John,  I  vow! 
I  am  hungering  and  thirsting. 

Come,  John,  or  you  '11  be  to  blame ; 

The  birds  wait  your  biding. 
One  of  them,  hearing  your  name, 

Flashed  forth  from  its  hiding;  — 

See,  it  is  searching  for  you  — 

Its  pretty  head  cocking; 
Pecking,  and  looking  askew, 

On  the  bare  bough  rocking. 

And  yonder  a  stray  wing  flitters; 

A  great  hawk  soars; 
The  lakelet  gleams  and  glitters; 

The  high  wind  roars. 

Nearer,  from  field  and  thicket, 

Come  musical  calls; 
The  tinkling,  clear  note  of  the  cricket, 

Chime  of  ripples  and  falls. 

From  the  meadow  far  up  to  the  hight 

The  leaves  all  are  turning; 
By  the  time  you  have  come  to  the  sight 

The  world  will  be  blazing  and  burning. 

John  of  Birds,  tarry  not  till 

The  first  wild  snow- flurry; 
Voices  of  forest  and  hill 

Cry  hurry,  O  hurry ! 


THE  LIGHT  LIES  ON   THE  FARTHER  HILLS       327 

SPRING  SURPRISE 

Lo,  now  it  comes  once  more;  lo,  my  heart  leaps  again; 
Comes  swift  the  dear  surprise,  not  at  the  spring,  alone, 
But,  as  a  soul  that  knew,  many  a  year  agone, 
All  the  full  bloom  of  love,  since  the  gray  ashes  — 

Feels  all  the  glad  surprise  when  the  o'er-wearied  heart 
Still  knows  the  joy  of  life,  as  in  the  olden  days; 
That  love  can  thrill  again ;  —  so  the  spring  calls  once 

more 
With  the  old  tenderness ;  till  my  heart  trembles. 

AUTUMN   TREES 

BUT  yesterday  a  world  of  haze, 
To-day,  a  glory  of  color  and  light! 

Like  golden  voices  shouting  praise 

The  bright  trees  flame  along  the  hight. 

Who  would  have  thought,  the  summer  through, 
Each  separate  tree  of  all  the  choir, 

Lifting  its  green  against  the  blue, 

Held  at  its  heart  such  flame  and  fire? 

"THE   LIGHT   LIES   ON   THE   FARTHER 
HILLS" 

THE  clouds  upon  the  mountains  rest; 

A  gloom  is  on  the  autumn  day; 
But  down  the  valley,  in  the  west, 

The  hidden  sunlight  breaks  its  way  — 

A  light  lies  on  the  farther  hills. 

Forget  thy  sorrow,  heart  of  mine ! 
Tho'  shadows  fall  and  fades  the  leaf, 


328  IN  THE  EIGHTS 

Somewhere  is  joy,  tho'  't  is  not  thine ; 
The  power  that  sent  can  heal  thy  grief; 
And  light  lies  on  the  farther  hills. 

Thou  wouldst  not  with  the  world  be  one 
If  ne'er  thou  knewest  hurt  and  wrong; 

Take  comfort,  tho*  the  darkened  sun 
Never  again  bring  gleam  or  song, 
The  light  lies  on  the  farther  hills. 


"AH,   NEAR,   DEAR  FRIEND" 

AH,  near,  dear  friend  of  many  and  many  years! 
I  have  known  thy  lovelinesses  — known  thy  tears, 
Thy  smiles,  like  sunlight  crossing  shade, 
Thy  spirit  unafraid. 

All  these  have  been  like  music  to  my  soul; 
These,  having  fashioned  me,  should  I  extol, 
It  were,  in  sooth,  myself  to  praise  — 
O  Light  of  all  my  days ! 

Thy  smiles,  thy  tears,  thy  exquisite  sad  words  — 
Mystic  as,  in  the  moonlight,  songs  of  birds; 
But,  O,  more  wonderful  than  these, 
Thy  lonely  silences. 

MUSIC  IN  DARKNESS 


AT  the  dim  end  of  day 

I  heard  the  great  musician  play: 

Saw  her  white  hands  now  slow,  now  swiftly  pass; 

Where  gleamed  the  polished  wood,  as  in  a  glass, 


MUSIC   IN    DARKNESS  329 

The  shadow  hands  repeating  every  motion. 

Then  did  I  voyage  forth  on  music's  ocean, 

Visiting  many  a  sad  or  joyful  shore, 

Where  storming  breakers  roar, 

Or  singing  birds  made  music  so  intense, — 

So  intimate  of  happiness  or  sorrow, — 

I  scarce  could  courage  borrow 

To  hear  those  strains:  well-nigh  I  hurried  thence 

To  escape  the  intolerable  weight 

That  on  my  spirit  fell  when  sobbed  the  music :  late,  too 

late,  too  late! 

While  slow  withdrew  the  light 
And,  on  the  lyric  tide,  came  in  the  night. 

ii 

So  grew  the  dark,  enshrouding  all  the  room 

In  a  melodious  gloom, 

Her  face  growing  viewless;  line  by  line 

That  swaying  form  did  momently  decline 

And  was  in  darkness  lost. 

Then  white  hands  ghostly  turned,  tho'  still  they  tost 

From  tone  to  tone;  pauseless  and  sure  as  if  in  perfect 

light; 

With  blind,  instinctive,  most  miraculous  sight, 
On,  on  they  sounded  in  that  world  of  night. 

m 

Ah,  dearest  one;  was  this  thy  thought,  as  mine, 

As  still  the  music  stayed? 

"  So  shall  the  loved  ones  fade,  — 

Feature  by  feature,  line  on  lovely  line; 

For  all  our  love,  alas, 

From  twilight  into  darkness  shall  they  pass! 

We  in  that  dark  shall  see  them  nevermore, 


33°  IN  THE  HIGHTS 

But  from  our  spirits  they  shall  not  be  banished; 

For  on  and  on  shall  the  sweet  music  pour 

That  was  the  soul  of  them,  the  loved,  the  vanished; 

And  we,  who  listen,  shall  not  lose  them  quite 

In  that  mysterious  night." 

THE   ANGER  OF  BEETHOVEN 

THIS  night  the  enchanting  musicians  rendered  a  trio  of 

Beethoven  — 

Light  and  lovely,  or  solemn,  as  in  a  Tuscan  tower 
The  walls  with  gracious  tapestries  gleam,  and  the  deep- 
cut  windows 
Give  on   landscapes  gigantic,  framing  the  four-square 

world  — 
When  sudden  the  music  turned  to  anger,  as  nature's 

murmur 

Sometimes  to  anger  turns,  speaking,  in  voice  infuriate, 
Cruel,  quick,  implacable;  inhuman,  savage,  resistless  — 
And  I  thought  of  that  sensitive  spirit  flinging  back  in 

scorn  tempestuous 

And  in  art  supreme,  immortal,  the  infamous  arrows  of 
fortune. 

MOTHER  AND   CHILD 

MOTHER  and  Child !   There  is  no  holier  sight 
In  all  the  realms  of  morning  and  of  night; 
And  all  the  meaning  of  that  word,  DIVINE, 
Shines  in  the  tender  glory  of  this  sign. 
The  world  learns  Worship  here;  it  kneels  in  awe, 
Seeing  a  mystery,  knowing  a  mighty  law. 
Sin  cannot  live  in  presence  of  this  grace, 
No  least  unworthiness  perplex  the  place. 


MOTHER    OF  HEROES  331 

Here  Good  doth  dwell,  but  never  baneful  Doubt, 
For  Love  and  Loveliness  would  cast  it  out. 
Were  prophet  voices  still,  the  heavens  brass, 
Here  would  a  new  Evangel  come  to  pass; 
Out  from  the  dark  a  rose-leaf  hand  would  leap, 
Close  to  the  Eternal  Throne  the  ancient  world  to  keep. 

ALICE  FREEMAN  PALMER 

WHEN  fell,  to-day,  the  word  that  she  had  gone, 

Not  this  my  thought :  Here  a  bright  journey  ends, 

Here  rests  a  soul  unresting;  here,  at  last, 

Here  ends  that  earnest  strength,  that  generous  life  — 

For  all  her  life  was  giving.    Rather  this 

I  said  (after  the  first  swift,  sorrowing  pang) : 

Radiant  with  love,  and  love's  unending  power, 

Hence,  on  a  new  quest,  starts  an  eager  spirit  — 

No  dread,  no  doubt,  unhesitating  forth 

With  asking  eyes;  pure  as  the  bodiless  souls 

Whom  poets  vision  near  the  central  throne 

Angelically  ministrant  to  man; 

So  fares  she  forth  with  smiling,  God  ward  face; 

Nor  should  we  grieve,  but  give  eternal  thanks  — 

Save  that  we  mortal  are,  and  needs  must  mourn. 

"MOTHER  OF  HEROES" 

SARAH   BLAKE   SHAW 

MOTHER  of  heroes,  she  —  of  them  who  gave 

Their  lives  to  lift  the  lowly,  free  the  slave. 

Her,  through  long  years,  two  master  passions  bound : 

Love  of  our  free  land;  and  of  all  sweet  sound. 

'T  was  praising  her  to  praise  this  land  of  grace; 

And  when  I  think  on  music  —  lo,  her  face! 


332  IN   THE  HIGHTS 

THE   GREAT  CITIZEN 

ABRAM   STEVENS   HEWITT 

MOURN  for  his  death,  but  for  his  life  rejoice, 
Who  was  the  city's  heart,  the  city's  voice. 

Dauntless  in  youth,  impetuous  in  age, 
Weighty  in  speech,  in  civic  counsel  sage; 

Talents  and  wealth  to  him  were  but  a  trust 
To  lift  his  hapless  brother  from  the  dust;  — 

This  his  chief  aim:  to  wake,  in  every  man, 
The  soul  to  do  what  only  courage  can. 

He  saw  the  evil,  as  the  wise  must  see, 

But  firm  his  faith  in  what  the  world  shall  be. 

Following  the  truth,  he  led  his  fellow-men  — 
Through  years  and  virtues  the  great  citizen ! 

By  being  great,  he  made  the  city  great; 
Serving  the  city,  he  upheld  the  state. 

So  shall  the  city  win  a  purer  fame 
Led  by  the  living  splendor  of  his  name. 


ON  READING  OF  A  POET'S  DEATH 

I  READ  that,  in  his  sleep,  the  poet  died 

Ere  the  day  broke; 
In  a  new  dawn,  as  rose  earth's  crimson  tide, 

His  spirit  woke. 


A  WONDROUS    SONG  333 

Yet  still  with  us  his  golden  spirit  stayed: 

On  the  same  page 
That  told  his  end,  his  living  verse  I  read  — 

His  lyric  rage. 

Behold !  I  thought,  they  call  him  cold  in  death, 

But  hither  turn  — 
See  where  his  soul,  a  glorious,  flaming  breath, 

Doth  pulse  and  burn! 

This  is  the  poet's  triumph,  his  high  doom! 

After  life's  stress, 
For  him  the  silent,  dark,  o'er-shadowing  tomb 

Is  shadowless. 

And  this  the  miracle,  the  mystery: 

In  that  he  gives 
His  soul  away,  magnificently  free  — 

By  this  he  lives. 

JOHN  HENRY  BONER 

IN  life's  hard  fight  this  poet  did  his  part; 
He  was  a  hero  of  the  mind  and  heart. 
Now  rests  his  body  'neath  his  own  loved  skies, 
And  from  his  tomb  Courage!  his  spirit  cries. 

"A  WONDROUS  SONG" 

A  WONDROUS  song, 

Rank  with  sea  smells  and  the  keen  lust  of  life; 

Echoing  with  battle  trumpets,  and  the  moan 

Of  dying  men  in  reeking  hospitals; 

Thrilling  all  through  with  human  pity  and  love 

And  crying  courage  in  the  face  of  doom;  — 

With  all  its  love  of  life  still  praising  death 


334  IN  THE  HIGHTS 

Enchantingly,  as  death  was  never  praised; 

And  with  high  anger  and  a  god-like  scorn 

Passionately  proclaiming  life  in  death 

And  the  unquenched,  immortal  soul  of  man  — 

A  wondrous  song, 

Trembling  with  unshed  tears  and  life's  full  joy, 

Burst  the  tense  meshes  of  the  critic's  web 

And  sang  itself  into  eternal  day. 

A  NEW  POET 

i 

FRIENDS,  beware! 

Stop  babbling!    Hark,  a  sound  is  in  the  air! 
Above  the  pretty  songs  of  schools 
(Not  of  music  made,  but  rules), 
Above  the  panic  rush  for  gold 
And  emptinesses  manifold, 
And  selling  of  the  soul  for  phantom  fame, 
And  reek  of  praises  where  there  should  be  blame; 

Over  the  dust  and  muck, 
The  buzz  and  roar  of  wheels, 
Another  music  steals; 
A  right,  true  note  is  struck. 

n 

Friends,  beware! 

A  sound  of  singing  in  the  air! 

The  love-song  of  a  man  who  loves  his  fellow-men ; 

Mother-love  and  country-love,  and  the  love  of  sea  and  fen ; 

Lovely  thoughts  and  mighty  thoughts  and  thoughts  that 

linger  long; 
There  has  come  to  the  old  world's  singing  the  thrill  of  a 

brave  new  song. 


BREAD    UPON   THE   WATERS  335 

in 

They  said  there  were  no  more  singers, 

But  listen !  —  a  master  voice ! 

A  voice  of  the  true  joy-bringers ! 

Now  will  ye  heed  and  rejoice, 

Or  pass  on  the  other  side, 

And  wait  till  the  singer  has  died, 

Then  weep  o'er  his  voiceless  clay? 

Friends,  beware! 

A  keen,  new  sound  is  in  the  air;  — 

Know  ye  a  poet's  coming  is  the  old  world's  judgment  day! 

THE  SINGER  OF   JOY 

HE  sang  the  rose,  he  praised  its  fragrant  breath; 

(Alas,  he  saw  the  gnawing  worm  beneath.) 

He  sang  of  summer  and  the  flowing  grass; 

(He  knew  that  all  the  beauty  quick  would  pass.) 

He  said  the  world  was  good  and  skies  were  fair; 

(He  saw  far,  gathering  clouds,  and  days  of  care.) 

Immortally  he  sang  pure  friendship's  flame; 

(Yet  had  he  seen  it  shrivel  to  a  name.) 

And,  ah,  he  praised  true  love,  with  golden  speech; 

(What  tho'  it  was  a  star  he  could  not  reach.) 

His  songs  in  cowering  souls  the  hero  woke  ; 

(He  in  the  shadows  waited  the  last  stroke.) 

He  was  the  singer  of  the  joyous  art; 

(Down  to  the  grave  he  bore  a  broken  heart.) 

BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS 

A  MELANCHOLY,  life  e'er-wearied  man 

Sat  in  his  lonely  room,  and,  with  slow  breath, 

Counted  his  losses:  thrice-wreckt  plan  on  plan, 


336  IN  THE  RIGHTS 

Failure  of  friend,  and  hope,  and  heart,  and  faith  — 

This  last  the  deadliest,  and  holding  all. 

Help  was  there  none  through  weeping,  for  the  years 

Had  stolen  all  his  treasury  of  tears. 

Then  on  a  page  where  his  eyes  chanced  to  fall 

There  sprang  such  words  of  courage  that  they  seemed 

Cries  on  a  battlefield,  or  as  one  dreamed 

Of  trumpets  sounding  charges.   On  he  read 

With  fixed  gaze,  and  sad,  down-drooping  head, 

And  curious,  half-remembering,  musing  mind. 

The  ringing  of  that  voice  had  something  stirred 

In  his  deep  heart,  like  music  long  since  heard. 

"Brave  words,"  he  sighed;  and  looked  where  they  were 

signed ; 
There,  reading  his  own  name,  tears  made  him  blind. 

LOST 

AN  old,  blind  poet,  sitting  sad  and  lone, 

Thinking  his  scribe  was  near,  chimed  slowly  forth 

Into  the  empty  and  unheeding  air 

A  song,  of  all  his  songs  the  loveliest. 

That  night  he  died,  and  the  sweet  song  was  lost. 

A  million  roses  and  uncounted  worlds 
Unknown,  save  to  their  Maker,  strew  the  flood 
Of  heedless  and  immeasurable  time. 

"WHAT  MAN  HATH  DONE" 

THUS  did  he  speak,  thus  was  he  comforted: 
"I  yet  shall  learn  to  live  ere  I  am  dead; 
I  shall  be  firm  of  will,  know  false  from  true: 
Each  error  will  but  show  me  how  to  do, 


HE   PONDERED   WELL  337 

When  next  the  occasion  calls.  I  shall  pursue 
The  path  that  grim  experience  has  taught." 
This  was  his  solace,  this  his  saving  thought. 

Then  came  a  sudden  knocking  at  the  door. 
He  rose  —  and  did  what  he  had  done  before : 
He  looked  into  the  dark,  he  flinched,  he  quailed; 
The  occasion  came,  and  once  again  he  failed. 

Thus  wrote  a  man  who  had  seen  much  of  men: 
"What  man  hath  done,  that  will  he  do  again." 


Yet  are  there  souls  who,  having  clinched  with  fate, 
Have  learned  to  live,  ere  it  was  all  too  late. 
Be  it  thy  hope,  tho'  seven  times  a  fool, 
To  get  some  lessons  in  life's  fearful  school. 

"HE  PONDERED   WELL" 

HE  pondered  well,  looked  in  his  heart, 
And  bravely  did  his  part. 
Then  spake  the  Ironic  Powers 
That  rule  the  prostrate  hours: 
"  Look  now  on  this  your  deed ;  — 
Despite  your  heroic  creed, 
Your  pondering  and  your  prayers, 
Behold  how  ill  the  pretty  project  fares! 
Not  hotly  were  you  driven; 
For  thought  and  thought  the  days  were  seven; 
All  was  wisdom,  all  was  cool  — 
And  now  one  name  you  to  yourself  have  given: 
'T  is  fool,  fool,  fool,  and  only  fool!" 


Hast  thou  kept  honor,  and  sweet  courtesy  kept, 
Then  is  no  loss  that  may  be  wailed  or  wept. 


338  IN   THE  RIGHTS 

"THOU  THINKEST  THOU   HAST  LIVED" 

THOU  thinkest  thou  hast  lived 

If  fortune  fair  hath  touched  thee  with  its  wand, 

If  thou  hast  known,  but  once,  the  top  of  life 

In  giving  royally,  in  truly  loving, 

In  braving  some  great  deed  in  sight  of  men, 

Or  issuing  victorious  from  strife. 

Not  so;  nor  hast  of  life  the  flower  and  hight 

In  suffering  that  others  may  go  free. 

For  thee  the  sequent  years  still  proudly  hold 

A  keener  sense  of  the  rich  depths  of  being, 

When  thou,  brave  novice,  shalt  endure  the  lore 

Of  fate's  immeasurable  ironies. 

Thou  may'st  behold  the  scorn  of  thee  and  thine 

Sit  on  the  laureled  brow  of  him  thy  hand 

Helped  to  that  heaven;  yes,  thou  yet  may'st  see 

Success,  in  them  thou  gavest  strength  to  rise, 

Used  for  thine  own  disfigurement  and  loss; 

May'st  know  betrayal  and  forgetfulness, 

And  knowing  shalt  thy  spirit  hold  in  calm; 

Pitying  the  arrogant,  the  meanly  vain, 

Unbitterly,  and  with  no  cloying  hate, 

Disdain,  nor  envy;  comforted  and  blest 

With  the  high  thought  of  knowledge,  worthily  gained, 

And  the  humility  which  makes  men  wise, 

And  the  uncensured  pride  of  purity. 

THE   GOOD  MAN 

WHAT  do  you  know  of  me,  my  gentlest  one ! 
You  who  have  watched  my  life  from  day  to  day 
Through  half  a  lifetime!    Who  have  seen,  indeed, 
My  comings  and  my  goings;  my  dull  years 
In  sunshine  and  in  shade;  in  getting  bread; 


TWO   HEROES  339 

Gathering  a  little  gold,  a  little  fame, 

A  thousand  nothings.   What,  I  say,  know  you 

Of  my  deep,  inward,  real,  wonderful  life? 

My  wild  emprizes,  foolishnesses,  fears, 

Failures,  and  shames,  and  all  but  acted  crimes; 

My  half-mad  waking  dreams,  O,  yes,  stark  mad; 

My  spiritual  comedies,  my  glooms  — 

Unutterable,  intense,  and  without  hope; 

My  secret,  true,  and  unpraised  heroisms; 

My  tragedies  —  played  on  the  bare  soul's  stage, 

With  no  eye  witnessing  but  mine,  alone  — 

Great  God!  not  thine,  I  pray,  not  thine,  not  thine! 

"SO   FIERCE  THE  BUFFETS" 

So  fierce  the  buffets  of  untimely  fate 
He  bowed  his  youthful  head  in  mortal  pain, 
And  cried:  "Alas,  my  happy  life  is  slain!" 
Then  came  true  sorrow,  and  he  knew,  too  late, 
His  early  woe  was  but  a  feather's  weight. 

TWO   HEROES 

Two  heroes  do  the  world's  insistent  work : 
One  rushes  in  the  battle's  blood  and  murk, 

And,  knowing  the  foeman  flies, 

In  one  rich  moment  dies. 

The  other,  on  a  path  he  long  has  feared, 
By  bugle  blast  and  drum-beat  all  uncheered, 

At  duty's  chill  behest 

Gives  life  to  want  and  waste. 

For  him,  the  battle  hero,  high  we  pile 

The  sculptured  stone ;  his  ringing  name,  the  while, 

In  praises  and  in  songs 

Its  lyric  life  prolongs. 


340  IN  THE  HIGHTS 

For  the  other,  we  fashion  a  heaven  of  late  reward; 

His  life,  all  dark,  and  desolate,  and  hard, 
Down  to  oblivion  goes  — 
Unless  some  great  God  knows! 

THE  WORLD'S  END 

ONCE  wandering  far  in  Asia,  lo,  we  came 
Unto  a  valley  falling  toward  the  east; 
Naked  its  sides  as  if  a  spreading  flame 
Had  swept  all  bare;  devouring,  in  mad  feast, 

Forest  and  herb,  all  beasts  and  singing  choirs. 
With  ardent  colors  were  the  vast  hills  strewn, 
Glowing  like  unquenched  embers  of  great  fires; 
Then  sank  the  red  sun,  rose  immense  the  moon. 

So  builded  were  those  walls,  so  leaned  the  earth, — 
With  slow,  unnatural,  and  awful  trend, — 
It  seemed,  at  last,  in  this  strange  land  of  dearth, 

Even  just  beyond,  the  solid  world  had  end  — 
And,  moving  on,  our  vision  might  take  flight 
Into  that  pit  whence  issue  day  and  night. 

SHELLEY'S   "OZYMANDIAS" 

THIS  timeless  river  —  oldest  of  all  time, 
These  desolate  mountains,  deserts  stretching  vast; 
These  pyramids  and  temples;  this  domain  - 
Of  tombs;  and  empty  shadows  of  the  dead, 
And  mockery  of  old  fame  ;  —  here  day  and  night 
I  wander,  not  alone,  nor  with  sad  heart : 
One  line  of  Shelley  singing  in  my  soul. 


INAUGURATION   DAY  341 

LA   SALLE 

EXPLORER   OF  THE    MISSISSIPPI 

BATTLING,  through  trackless  lands,  'gainst  savage  foes; 
Striving,  enduring,  knowing  the  bitterness 
Of  foul  betrayal,  still  in  front  he  goes; 
Onward  through  swamp  and  forest  see  him  press, 
Proud,  silent,  suffering,  misunderstood; 
The  weight  he  bore,  it  seemed  that  no  man  could; 
Then  at  the  last,  when  the  infernal  stroke 
Fell,  't  was  as  if  the  silent  leader  spoke : 
"  This  river  I  first  traced  to  the  far  sea  — 
If  monument  I  need,  this  let  it  be; 
Then  shall  I  live  with  the  chief  sons  of  time. 
This  is  the  path  of  empire :  onward  to  empire  climb ! " 

INAUGURATION  DAY 

ON  this  great  day  a  child  of  time  and  fate 
On  a  new  path  of  power  doth  stand  and  wait. 

Tho'  heavy-burdened  shall  his  heart  rejoice, 
Dowered  with  a  nation's  faith,  an  empire's  choice. 

Who  hath  no  strength,  but  that  the  people  give, 
And  in  their  wills,  alone,  his  will  doth  live. 

On  this  one  day,  this,  this,  is  their  one  man, 
The  well-beloved,  the  chief  American ! 

Whose  people  are  his  brothers,  fathers,  sons: 
In  this  his  strength,  and  not  a  million  guns. 


342  IN   THE   HIGHTS 

Whose  power  is  mightier  than  the  mightiest  crown, 
Because  that  soon  he  lays  that  power  down. 

Whose  wish,  linked  to  the  people's,  shall  exceed 
The  force  of  civic  wrong  and  banded  greed. 

Whose  voice,  in  friendship  or  in  warning  heard, 
Brings  to  the  nations  a  free  people's  word; 

And,  where  the  opprest  out  from  the  darkness  grope, 
'T  is  as  the  voice  of  freedom  and  of  hope. 

O  pray  that  he  may  rightly  rule  the  state, 
And  grow,  in  truly  serving,  truly  great. 

THE  WASHINGTON  MONUMENT 

AT   WASHINGTON,   D.   C. 

STRAIGHT  soars  to  heaven  the  white  magnificence  — 
Free  as  man's  thought,  high  as  one  lonely  name;  — 

True  image  of  his  soul,  serene,  immense, 
Mightiest  of  monuments  and  mightiest  fame. 

BUILDERS   OF  THE   STATE 

WHO  builds  the  state?  Not  he  whose  power 
Rooted  in  wrong,  in  gold  intrenched, 

Makes  him  the  regent  of  the  hour; 
The  eternal  light  cannot  be  quenched: 

This  shall  outlive  his  little  span; 

Shine  fierce  upon  each  tainted  scheme; 
Shall  show  where  shame  blots  all  the  plan ; 

The  treachery  in  the  dazzling  dream. 


BUILDERS    OF   THE    STATE  343 

He  builds  the  state  who  builds  on  truth, — 
Not  he  who,  crushing  toward  his  aim, 

Strikes  conscience  from  the  throne,  and  ruth, 
To  win  a  dark,  unpiteous  fame. 

Not  he,  tho'  master  among  men, 
Empire  and  ages  all  his  thought  — 

Tho'  like  an  eagle  be  his  ken: 

Down  to  the  ground  shall  all  be  brought. 

For  this  I  hold,  and  shall  for  aye, 

Till  Heaven  sends  death,  that  they  who  sow 
Hate,  and  the  blood  of  brothers,  they 

Shall  harvest  hate  and  want  and  woe  — 

The  curse  of  Earth's  dread  agonies 
Whereto  they  added,  in  their  hour, 

And  all  the  unheeded  tears  and  cries 
They  caused  in  lust  of  lawless  power. 

He  builds  the  state  who  to  that  task 

Brings  strong,  clean  hands,  and  purpose  pure; 
Who  wears  not  virtue  as  a  mask; 

He  builds  the  state  that  shall  endure  — 

The  state  wherein  each  loyal  son 
Holds  as  a  birthright  from  true  sires 

Treasures  of  honor,  nobly  won, 
And  freedom's  never-dying  fires. 


344  IN  THE   HIGHTS 

IMPROMPTUS 

TO   WILLIAM    WATSON 

ON    HIS   CORONATION    ODE 

(These  lines  were  first  published  on  the  day  the  King  was  to  have  been 
crowned.) 

IN  this  high  ode  with  its  great  shadow-kings, 

More  real  than  real  things; 
In  this  proud  pageant  of  imperial  verse 

That  nobly  doth  rehearse 
England's  true  glories,  for  the  world  to  read, 

The  King  is  crowned  indeed! 


(SIDNEY  LAMER) 

LIFE  is  the  hammer  that  strikes 
From  the  bell  of  the  poet's  heart 
Art. 

And  whether  he  lives  or  dies 
The  music  in  widening  rings 
Sings. 

"THE  CRITIC  SCANNED  THE  POET'S  BOOK" 

THE  critic  scanned  the  poet's  book 
And  ranged  it  calmly  in  its  place  •  — 
A  soul  that  felt  its  music  shook 
As  if  a  bolt  struck  down  through  space; 
And  in  that  soul,  like  flower  from  seed, 
The  music  turned  to  lofty  deed 
That  sanctified  a  race. 


IMPROMPTUS  345 

"HER  DELICATE  FORM" 

HER  delicate  form,  her  night  of  hair, 

Took  me,  unaware. 
They  called  her  poet,  and  the  word 

Strangely  I  heard; 
For  that  I  thought :  Can  she 
A  poem  write,  and  be  ? 

FRANCESCA  MIA 

No  verses  I  can  bring  her, 
No  song  that  I  can  sing  her, 
Can  be  so  sweet,  by  half, 
As  the  music  of  her  laugh, 
As  the  murmur  of  her  voice, 
As  the  sound  of  her  violin. 
These  make  my  heart  rejoice, 
These  me  to  heaven  can  win. 
But  something  in  her  face, 
Sad,  wild,  and  full  of  grace  — 
A  look  in  those  dark  eyes 
That  dream,  and  flash,  and  dance, 
And  with  soft  shadows  fill  — 
These  bring  one  long-loved  glance, 
Tender,  and  deep,  and  wise; 
Then  doth  my  heart  stand  still. 

AGE,  AND   THE    SCORNER 

As  I  hobble,  old  and  halt, 
Daily,  nightly, 

By  you,  hectoring  on  the  corner, 
I  know  you  for  a  graybeard  scorner, 
Tho'  you  raise  your  hat  politely: 


346  IN  THE  HIGHTS 

I  know  you  hold  it  for  a  fault 

That  I  bend  with  burdening  years, 

Dull  of  eye,  and  dull  of  ears; 

That  this  poll 

Whitens  like  a  flax-wigged  doll. 

JT  is  a  fault,  you  think ;  but  wait ! 

Something  marches,  men  call  Fate; 

If  you,  boy!  succeed  in  keeping 

Safe  from  sweep  of  Old  Time's  reaping, 

You  'II  be  the  bent-back  one  that  hobbles 

Over  the  cobbles  — 

Wondering  why,  all  young  at  heart, 

With  the  old  you're  pushed  apart. 

TO  JACOB   A.  RIIS 

ON    HIS   SILVER   WEDDING 

WERE  true  hearts  bells,  all  breezes  would  be  bringing, 
Straight  to  your  heart  to-day,  a  silver  ringing 
From  those  you  Jve  blest,  the  heavy  hearts  and  sore ;  — 
Hark  the  sweet  sound  from  here  to  Elsinore! 

MUSIC   AND    FRIENDSHIP 

THRICE  is  sweet  music  sweet  when  every  word 
And  lovely  tone  by  kindred  hearts  are  heard; 
So  when  I  hear  true  music,  Heaven  send, 
To  share  that  heavenly  joy,  one  dear,  dear  friend! 

FRIENDSHIP 

TO    

FROM  the  happy  first  time 

That  we  met  —  and  wondered, 

I  from  thee  and  thou  from  me 
Ne'er  in  soul  were  sundered. 


IMPROMPTUS  347 

No  regret,  no  blaming; 

Absence  has  not  shaken : 
Far  apart,  still  close  in  heart; 

Undoubting,  unforsaken. 

As  the  circle  narrows 

We  draw  near  and  nearer; 
So,  old  friend!  as  comes  the  end 

Thou  art  dearer,  dearer. 


TO  E.  c.  s. 

ON    HIS   SEVENTIETH    BIRTHDAY 

His  life  was  generous  as  his  life  was  long  — 
Filled  to  the  brim  with  friendship  and  with  song. 

"TELL  ME  GOOD-BY" 

DARK  Southern  girl!  the  dream-like  day  is  past, 
The  harbor  light  burns  red  against  the  sky; 

In  the  high  blue,  star  follows  star  full  fast; 

The  ship  that  takes  me  northward  loometh  nigh; 
"Tell  me  good-by!" 

Good-by  to  the  red  rose  that  is  your  mouth, 
The  tender  violets  that  are  your  sigh ; 

The  sweetness  that  you  are  —  that  is  my  South ; 

Ah,  not  too  soon,  Enchantress,  do  I  fly! 
"Tellmegood-by." 

"Tell  me  good-by,"  —  but  not  too  sweetly  tell 

Lest  all  too  hard  the  going,  lest  I  cry 
"Never,  no  never!"  tho'  the  parting  bell 

Ring  madly  in  the  night;  not  then  could  I 
Tell  you  good-by. 


348  IN  THE  HIGHTS 

FAREWELL   TO   CHARLESTON 

ENCHANTED  city,  O  farewell,  farewell! 

If  farewell  it  can  be 

When  here,  'twixt  the  dark  pines  and  sunrise  sea, 

Our  hearts  remain, 

While  fare  our  bodies  to  the  North  again ! 

Here  stay  our  hearts  amid  these  mansions  stately, 

These  oaks,  forever  green,  that  guard  sedately 

The  living  and  the  dead  — 

Thrilled  through  with  song  that  hath  interpreted 

The  beauty  and  the  gladness  of  the  day. 

O,  yes,  our  hearts  remain;  they  must  forever  stay 

'Midst  happy  gardens,  unforgettable, 

And  where  St.  Michael's  chimes 

The  fragrant  hours  exquisitely  tell, 

Making  the  world  one  loveliness,  like  a  true  poet's  rhymes. 


THESE  are  the  sounds  that  I  heard  at  the  home  in  "  The 

Pines": 

The  frightened  cry  of  the  yellowthroat  hid  in  the  trees; 
The  chipmunk's  rustling  tread  on  the  autumn  leaves 
That  fringe  with  brown  the  green  of  the  wave  and  the 

wood; 

The  purr  of  the  quick  canoe  where  it  curves  the  wave 
And  the  liquid  push  of  the  oar;  the  voice  of  the  wind 
Now  far,  now  near,  as  it  sighs  through  the  swaying 

boughs  — 

Through  the  boughs  that  sway  with  a  slow  and  wave- 
like  motion 

Like  growths  of  the  sea  that  swing  in  the  moving  waters; 
The  voice  of  the  wind  I  heard,  now  near,  now  far; 
Voice  of  the  grieving  world  that  murmurs  and  calls 
And  wakes  in  the  spirit  of  man  an  answering  cry. 


IMPROMPTUS  349 


NOT  wreaths  alone,  for  him  who  wins  the  fight 

'Twixt  public  Wrong  and  Right ;  — 
The  heavy  burden  of  the  people's  cares 

The  civic  conqueror  bears. 
So  to  the  chief,  on  this  victorious  night, 
Pledge  hands  and  hearts  and  heaven-climbing  prayers. 

FOR   THE   CITY    CLUB 

IN  Love  of  City  here  we  take  our  stand :  — • 
Love  of  the  City  is  no  narrow  love; 

Who  loves  it  not  he  cannot  love  his  land 
With  love  that  shall  protect,  exalt,  endure. 

Here  are  our  homes,  our  hearts ;  great  God  above ! 

The  City  shall  be  noble,  shall  be  pure.  .  • 

TO    C.    H.    RUSSELL 

WHOSE   FATHER   WAS   ONE   OF   LINCOLN'S    HELPERS 

I  GIVE  this  token  to  the  son  of  him 
That  was  a  type  of  those  brave,  prescient  souls 
Who  when  dire  trouble  fell  upon  the  land 
From  the  beginning  saw  the  fateful  end, 
Bending  strong  backs  to  the  tremendous  strain. 

Higher  than  knighthood's  honor  lives  your  line 
For  that  the  mighty  Lincoln  hurriedly  called 
To  your  true  sire,  in  a  perilous  hour, 
And  got  true  answer  —  succor  swift,  complete. 

On  such  as  he  the  patient  President, 
The  tender  elder  brother  of  us  all, 
The  sad,  wise  leader  leaned,  and  not  in  vain. 
Therefore  the  nation  lives  —  therefore  shall  live, 
Inheriting  the  spirit  of  great  days. 


350  IN  THE  RIGHTS 


GIVE  thy  day  to  Duty! 

To  that  high  thought  be  given 

Thine  every  hour. 

So  shall  the  bending  heaven, 

As  from  the  root  the  flower, 

Bring  to  thy  glad  soul  Beauty. 

TWO  OPTIMISTS 

(A   LETTER  TO  JOSEPH  JEFFERSON,  ACKNOWLEDGING   A  COPY   OF 
HELEN  KELLER'S  ESSAY  ON  "OPTIMISM") 

To  send  fit  thanks,  I  would  I  had  the  art, 
For  this  small  book  that  holds  a  mighty  heart, 
Enshrining,  as  it  does,  brave  Helen's  creed. 

In  thought  and  word;  in  many  a  lovely  deed; 
In  facing  what  would  crush  a  lesser  soul, 
Making  of  barriers  helps  to  reach  the  goal; 
In  sympathy  with  all;  in  human  kindness 
To  the  blind  of  heart  (dear  girl!  not  this  her  blindness!), 
As  well  as  to  her  brethren  of  the  dark 
And  silent  world,  who  through  her  see  and  hark; 
In  bringing  out  of  darkness  a  great  light, 
Which  burns  and  beacons  high  in  all  men's  sight, 
That  exquisite  spirit  is  true  optimist ! 

Yet  there  are  other  names  in  the  bright  list : 
If  faith  in  man  and  woman  that  still  lasts, 
Tho'  chilled  by  seventy  winters'  bitter  blasts; 
If  seeing,  as  you  see,  the  good  in  evil, 
And  even  something  Christian  in  the  devil; 
If  power  to  take  misfortune  as  a  friend 
And  to  be  cheerful  to  the  darkening  end; 
Not  to  be  spoiled  by  praise,  nor  deeply  stung 
By  the  detractor's  sharp  and  envious  tongue; 


THE   PASSING   OF  JOSEPH   JEFFERSON      351 

If  living  in  fairy-land  as  really  now 

As  when  heaven's  dew  was  fresh  on  childhood's  brow; 

If  seeing,  in  fine,  this  world  as  through  a  prism 

Of  lovely  colors  be  true  optimism, 

Then  Jefferson  is  true  optimist  no  less, 

And  Heaven  sent  both  this  troubled  world  to  bless. 


THE  PASSING  OF  JOSEPH  JEFFERSON 

SOME  element  from  nature  seems  withdrawn, 

The  world  we  lived  in  being  of  his  spirit  wrought  - 

His  brightness,  sweetness,  tender  gayety, 

His  childlike,  wistful,  and  half-humorous  faith 

That  turned  this  harsh  earth  into  fairy-land. 

He  made  our  world,  and  now  our  world  is  changed. 

The  sunniest  nature  his  that  ever  breathed; 
Most  lovable  of  all  the  sons  of  men ; 
Who  built  his  joy  on  making  others  happy; 
Like  Jesus,  lover  of  the  hills  and  shores, 
And  like  him  to  the  beasts  and  flowers  kin, 
And  with  a  brother's  love  for  all  mankind, 
But  chiefly  for  the  loving  —  tho'  the  lost. 
In  his  own  art, —  ineffable,  serene, 
And  mystical  (not  less  to  nature  true 
And  to  the  heart  of  man), —  his  was  the  power 
To  shed  a  light  of  love  on  human  waifs 
And  folk  of  simple  soul.   Where'er  he  went, 
Sweet  childhood  followed  and  all  childlike  hearts. 
His  very  presence  made  a  holiday  — 
Affectionate  laughter  and  quick,  unsad  tears. 

Now,  he  being  gone,  the  sun  shines  not  so  bright 
And  every  shadow  darkens. 


352  IN   THE  HIGHTS 

Kind  Heaven  forbid 

Our  lives  should  lack  forever  what  he  gave; 
Prove  mirage-haunted,  every  good  unreal! 
Let  the  brave  cheer  of  life  we  had  through  him 
Return,  reflected  from  his  joyous  soul 
That  cannot  all  be  lost,  where'er  it  hides, — 
Hides,  but  is  quenched  not, —  haply  smiling  still 
Near  where  his  well-loved  Shakespeare  smiling  sits, 
Whose  birthday  for  his  own  new  birth  he  took 
Into  the  unseen  world,  to  him  not  far 
But  radiant  with  the  same  mysterious  light 
That  filled  his  noontime  with  the  twilight  dream. 
And  it  was  Easter,  too  —  the  golden  day 
Of  resurrection,  and  man's  dauntless  hope. 

Into  the  unseen  he  past,  willing  and  glad, 
And  humbly  proud  of  a  great  nation's  love; 
In  honored  age,  with  heart  untouched  by  years 
Save  to  grow  sweeter,  and  more  dear,  more  dear  — 
Into  that  world  whereon,  so  oft,  he  mused; 
Where  he  forgets  not  this,  nor  shall  we  him  — 
That  magic  smile,  that  most  pathetic  voice, 
That  starry  glance,  that  rare  and  faithful  soul. 

From  dream  to  dream  he  past  on  Shakespeare's 

day  — 

So  dedicate  his  mind  to  pleasant  thought, 
So  deep  his  fealty  to  that  supreme  shade; 
He  being,  like  him  of  Avon,  a  fairy  child, 
High-born  of  miracle  and  mystery, 
Of  wonder,  and  of  wisdom,  and  of  mirth. 


SHALL   WE    NOT   PRAISE    THE   LIVING      353 

"SHALL   WE    NOT   PRAISE    THE    LIVING?" 

I 

UNGENEROUS ! 

Shall  we  not  praise  the  living  as  the  dead? 
And  I,  who  lately  sang  a  beautiful  spirit  fled, 
Shall  I  not  praise  a  living  spirit  we  know, 
Dear  heart!  we  know  full  well, 
And  long  have  known,  in  utmost  joy  and  woe; 
In  our  own  sorrows,  and  delights; 
Her  days  of  brightness  and  lone- weeping  nights! 
If  she  should  die,  alas  the  day!  how  swift  this  verse 

would  tell 

Our  anguish,  our  large  loss,  irreparable, 
In  a  wild  passion  of  praise 

For  her  dear  virtues,  her  sweet  friendship's  ways, 
That  many  know;  but  only  a  sacred  few 
Know,  as  to  the  evening  hour  is  known  the  dew, 
As  the  still  dawn  knows  the  great,  melting  stars, 
As  night  is  intimate  to  those  who  love, 
As  sorrow's  voice  is  known  to  the  mourning  dove, 
As  memoried  twilight  holds  the  sunset's  crimson  bars. 

ii 

Shall  we  not  praise  the  loveliness 

God  gave  her,  and  the  true  heart  that  cannot  help  but 

bless? 

For  she  is  not  of  those 
Who  virtues  wear  like  graceful  draperies, 
But  breathes  them  as  her  life.    Where'er  she  goes 
Go  pleasure  and  pure  thoughts,  and  baseness  dies. 
A  holy  ministry  her  life  is,  even  without  intent; 
For,  tho'  she  worships  duty, 


354  IN  THE  HIGHTS 

Such  elements  in  her  are  exquisitely  blent 
She  cannot  but  be  kind; 
A  spiritual  radiance  in  her  beauty 
Makes  itself  inly  felt,  even  by  the  blind. 

Ah,  thou  and  I,  dear  soul !  we  know 
How  the  rich  courtesy  that  touched  full  many  a  heart 
Is  no  mere  learnt  and  gracious  art; 
For  when,  to  those  she  loved,  keen  trouble  came, 
How  leaped  her  spirit,  like  a  flame; 
How  quick,  sure,  self-forgetting,  beyond  thought, 
The  angelic  succor  that  brave  spirit  brought ! 

in 

How  may  I  fitly  name  them  all  — 
The  graces,  gentlenesses,  benedicities, 
That  in  a  white  processional 
Move  before  these  musing  eyes; 
Nor  would  I  shame 

That  proud  humility  which  is  the  crown  and  chief 
Of  all  the  virtues  that  make  up  her  golden  sheaf; 
Tho'  should  I  name 

Each  separate  goodness,  clearly,  that  is  her  very  own, 
To  her  calm  eyes,  alone, 

The  authentic  picture  would  be  never  known  — 
The  portrait  of  another  it  would  seem; 
And  should  one  say,  "  This,  this  indeed  is  you ! " 
"  No,"  she  would  cry,  "  't  is  but  a  poet's  dream, 
And,  save  as  a  dream,  it  cannot  all  be  true !  " 

IV 

This,  then,  the  dream:  Large,  innocent  eyes, 
Lit  with  life's  romance  and  surprise, 
And  with  a  child's  strange  wisdom  wise. 


SHALL   WE   NOT   PRAISE   THE   LIVING      355 

A  child  in  nature,  eager,  gay, 
And,  yet,  in  all  a  woman's  way 
Wifely  and  motherly  her  day. 

Curious,  but  constant;  slow  to  wrath, 
Yet  nobly  scornful;  pride  she  hath 
That  sheds  a  splendor  on  her  path. 

She  breathes  a  heaven-born  sympathy; 
For  her  there  is  no  low  nor  high; 
Goodness  is  honor  in  her  eye: 

So,  in  the  throng,  each  separate  one 
Deems  her  glad  welcome  his  alone, 
As  if  some  special  grace  were  shown. 

The  great  world,  seeing  her  afar, 
Claims  her,  and  names  her  for  a  star; 
But,  among  nearer  watchers,  are 

Some  who  a  sacred  tale  could  tell 
How  those  bright  beams,  ineffable, 
On  one  great  hero-spirit  fell. 


Shall  we  not  praise  the  living? 

Too  soon  the  living  pass 

Like  images  on  the  unremembering  glass, 

Scarce  even  a  breath's  length !  shall  we  not  thanksgiv 
ing 

Upraise,  or  e'er  the  everlasting  sleep 

Hath  dulled  the  ear?  that  slumber  deep 

Whereof  we  know  so  little,  however  we  may  hope  — 

Mortals  who  see  a  closing  door,  and  never  see  it 
ope. 


356  IN   THE   HIGHTS 

HYMN 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  SERVICE  IN  MEMORY  OF  DR.  J.  L.  M. 
CURRY,  HELD  BY  THE  SOUTHERN  EDUCATION  CONFER 
ENCE,  RICHMOND,  VIRGINIA,  APRIL  26,  1903 

GOD  of  the  strong,  God  of  the  weak, 
Lord  of  all  lands,  and  our  own  land; 

Light  of  all  souls,  from  Thee  we  seek 

Light  from  Thy  light,  strength  from  Thy  hand. 

In  suffering  Thou  hast  made  us  one, 

In  mighty  burdens  one  are  we; 
Teach  us  that  lowliest  duty  done 

Is  highest  service  unto  Thee. 

Teach  us,  Great  Teacher  of  mankind, 
The  sacrifice  that  brings  Thy  balm; 

The  love,  the  work  that  bless  and  bind; 
Teach  us  Thy  majesty,  Thy  calm. 

Teach  Thou,  and  we  shall  know,  indeed, 
The  truth  divine  that  maketh  free; 

And  knowing,  we  may  sow  the  seed 
That  blossoms  through  eternity ;  — 

May  sow  in  every  living  heart 
That  to  the  waiting  day  doth  ope. 

Not  ours,  O  God!  the  craven  part, 
To  shut  one  human  soul  from  hope. 

Now,  in  the  memory  of  Thy  Saint, 
To  whom  Thy  little  ones  were  dear, 

Help  us  to  toil  and  not  to  faint, 
Till  earth  grows  dark  and  heaven  comes  near. 


JOHN   WESLEY  357 

JOHN   WESLEY 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  CELEBRATION  OF  THE  TWO-HUN 
DREDTH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  BIRTH  OF  JOHN 
WESLEY,  AT  WESLEYAN  UNIVERSITY,  MIDDLETOWN, 
CONNECTICUT,  JUNE,  1903 


IN  those  clear,  piercing,  piteous  eyes  behold 
The  very  soul  that  over  England  flamed! 
Deep,  pure,  intense;  consuming  shame  and  ill; 
Convicting  men  of  sin;  making  faith  live; 
And, —  this  the  mightiest  miracle  of  all, — 
Creating  God  again  in  human  hearts. 

What  courage  of  the  flesh  and  of  the  spirit! 
How  grim  of  wit,  when  wit  alone  might  serve! 
What  wisdom  his  to  know  the  boundless  might 
Of  banded  effort  in  a  world  like  ours ! 
How  meek,  how  self-forgetful,  courteous,  calm ! 
A  silent  figure  when  men  idly  raged 
In  murderous  anger;  calm,  too,  in  the  storm, — 
Storm  of  the  spirit,  strangely  imminent, — 
When  spiritual  lightnings  struck  men  down 
And  brought,  by  violence,  the  sense  of  sin, 
And  violently  oped  the  gates  of  peace. 

O  hear  that  voice,  which  rang  from  dawn  to  night, 
In  church  and  abbey  whose  most  ancient  walls 
Not  for  a  thousand  years  such  accents  knew ! 
On  windy  hilltops;  by  the  roaring  sea; 
'Mid  tombs,  in  market-places,  prisons,  fields; 
'Mid  clamor,  vile  attack,  or  deep-awed  hush, 
Wherein  celestial  visitants  drew  near 
And  secret  ministered  to  troubled  souls ! 


35$  IN  THE  HIGHTS 

Hear  ye,  O  hear!  that  ceaseless-pleading  voice, 
Which  storm,  nor  suffering,  nor  age  could  still  — 
Chief  prophet-voice  through  nigh  a  century's  span! 
Now  silvery  as  Zion's  dove  that  mourns, 
Now  quelling  as  the  Archangel's  judgment-trump, 
And  ever. with  a  sound  like  that  of  old 
Which,  in  the  desert,  shook  the  wandering  tribes, 
Or,  round  about  storied  Jerusalem, 
Or  by  Gennesaret,  or  Jordan,  spake 
The  words  of  life. 

4 

Let  not  that  image  fade 
Ever,  O  God!  from  out  the  minds  of  men, 
Of  him  Thy  messenger  and  stainless  priest, 
In  a  brute,  sodden,  and  unfaithful  time, 
Early  and  late,  o'er  land  and  sea,  on-driven; 
In  youth,  in  eager  manhood,  age  extreme  — 
Driven  on  forever,  back  and  forth  the  world, 
By  that  divine,  omnipotent  desire, 
The  hunger  and  the  passion  for  men's  souls! 

Ah,  how  he  loved  Christ's  poor!   No  narrow  thought 
Dishumaned  any  soul  from  his  emprize; 
But  his  the  prayer  sincere  that  Heaven  might  send 
Him  chiefly  to  the  humble;  he  would  be, 
Even  as  the  Galilean,  dedicate 
Unto  the  ministry  of  lowliness: 
That  boon  did  Heaven  mercifully  grant; 
And  gladly  was  he  heard;  and  rich  the  fruit; 
While  still  the  harvest  ripens  round  the  earth; 
And  many  own  the  name  once  given  in  scorn; 
And  all  revere  the  holy  life  he  led, 
Praise  what  he  did  for  England,  and  the  world, 
And  call  that  greatness  which  was  once  reproach. 
Would  we  were  worthy  for  his  praise. 


JOHN   WESLEY  359 

Dear  God! 

Thy  servant  never  knew  one  selfish  hour! 
How  are  we  shamed,  who  look  upon  a  world 
Ages  afar  from  that  true  kingdom  preached 
Millenniums  ago  in  Palestine ! 

Send  us,  again,  O  Spirit  of  all  Truth ! 
High  messengers  of  dauntless  faith  and  power 
Like  him  whose  memory  this  day  we  praise, 
We  cherish  and  we  praise  with  burning  hearts. 
Let  kindle,  as  before,  from  his  bright  torch, 
Myriads  of  messengers  aflame  with  Thee 
To  darkest  places  bearing  light  divine ! 


As  did  one  soul,  whom  here  I  fain  would  sing, 
For  here  in  youth  his  gentle  spirit  took 
New  fire  from  Wesley's  glow. 

How  oft  have  I, 

A  little  child,  barkened  my  father's  voice 
Preaching  the  Word  in  country  homes  remote, 
Or  wayside  schools,  where  only  two  or  three 
Were  gathered.    Lo,  again  that  voice  I  hear, 
Like  Wesley's,  raised  in  those  sweet,  fervent  hymns 
Made  sacred  by  how  many  saints  of  God 
Who  breathed  their  souls  out  on  the  well-loved  tones. 
Again  I  see  those  circling,  eager  faces; 
I  hear  once  more  the  solemn-urging  words 
That  tell  the  things  of  God  in  simple  phrase; 
Again  the  deep-voiced,  reverent  prayer  ascends, 
Bringing  to  the  still  summer  afternoon 
A  sense  of  the  eternal.    As  he  preached 
He  lived;  unselfish,  famelessly  heroic. 
For  even  in  mid-career,  with  life  still  full, 
His  was  the  glorious  privilege  and  choice 


360  IN   THE  HIGHTS 

Deliberately  to  give  that  life  away 

For  country  and  for  comrades;  for  he  knew 

No  rule  but  duty,  no  reward  but  Christ. 

m 

Increase  thy  prophets,  Lord!  give  strength  to  smite 
Shame  to  the  heart  of  luxury  and  sloth ! 
Give  them  the  yearning  after  human  souls 
That  burned  in  Wesley's  breast!   Through  them,  great 

God! 

Teach  poverty  it  may  be  rich  in  Thee; 
Teach  riches  the  true  wealth  of  Thine  own  spirit. 
To  our  loved  land,  Celestial  Purity! 
Bring  back  the  meaning  of  those  ancient  words, — 
Not  lost  but  soiled,  and  darkly  disesteemed, — 
The  ever  sacred  names  of  husband,  wife, 
And  the  great  name  of  Love,  whereon  is  built 
The  temple  of  human  happiness  and  hope ! 
Baptize  with  holy  wrath  thy  prophets,  Lord! 
By  them  purge  from  us  this  corruption  foul 
That  seizes  on  our  civic  governments, 
Crowns  the  corrupter  in  the  sight  of  men, 
And  makes  him  maker  of  laws,  and  honor's  source!  . 

Help  us,  in  memory  of  the  sainted  dead, 
Help  us,  O  Heaven !  to  frame  a  nobler  state, 
In  nobler  lives  rededicate  to  Thee : 
Symbol  and  part  of  the  large  brotherhood 
Of  man  and  nations;  one  in  one  great  love, 
True  love  of  God,  which  is  the  love  of  man, 
In  sacrifice  and  mutual  service  shown. 

Let  kindle,  as  before,  O  Heavenly  Light ! 
New  messengers  of  righteousness,  and  hope, 
And  courage,  for  our  day!    So  shall  the  world 
That  ever,  surely,  climbs  to  Thy  desire 
Grow  swifter  toward  Thy  purpose  and  intent. 


A   TEMPLE    OF   ART  361 


A   TEMPLE    OF    ART 

WRITTEN   FOR   THE   OPENING   OF   THE  ALBRIGHT   ART 
GALLERY,   BUFFALO,    MAY   31,    1905 

I 

SLOWLY  to  the  day  the  rose, 

The  moon-flower  suddenly  to  the  night, 

Their  mysteries  of  light 

In  innocence  unclose. 


In  this  garden  of  delight, 

This  pillared  temple,  pure  and  white, 

We  plant  the  seed  of  art, 

With  mystic  power 

To  bring,  or  sudden  or  slow,  the  perfect  flower, 

That  cheers  and  comforts  the  sad  human  heart; 

That  brings  to  man  high  thought 

From  starry  regions  caught, 

And  sweet,  unconscious  nobleness  of  deed; 

So  he  may  never  lose  his  childhood's  joyful  creed, 

While  years  and  sorrows  to  sorrows  and  years  succeed. 

HI 

Tho'  thick  the  cloud  that  hides  the  unseen  life 

Before  we  were  and  after  we  shall  be, 

Here  in  this  fragment  of  eternity; 

And  heavy  is  the  burden  and  the  strife  — 

The  universe,  we  know,  in  beauty  had  its  birth; 

The  day  in  beauty  dawns,  in  beauty  dies, 

With  intense  color  of  the  sea  and  skies; 

And  life,  for  all  its  rapine,  with  beauty  floods  the  earth. 

Lovely  the  birds,  and  their  true  song, 

Amid  the  murmurous  leaves,  the  summer  long. 


362  IN   THE    HIGHTS 

Whate'er  the  baffling  power 

Sent  anger  and  earthquake  and  a  thousand  ills, 

It  made  the  violet  flower, 

And  the  wide  world  with  breathless  beauty  thrills. 

IV 

Who  built  the  world  made  man 

With  power  to  build  and  plan, 

A  soul  all  loveliness  to  love, 

Blossom  below  and  lucent  blue  above, 

And  new  unending  beauty  to  contrive. 

He,  the  creature,  may  not  make 

Beautiful  beings  all  alive  — 

Irised  moth  nor  mottled  snake, 

The  lily's  splendor, 

The  light  of  glances  infinitely  tender, 

Nor  the  day's  dying  glow  nor  flush  of  morn, 

And  yet  his  handiwork  the  angels  shall  not  scorn, 

When  he  hath  wrought  in  truth  and  by  Heaven's  law, 

In  lowliness  and  awe. 

Bravely  shall  he  labor,  while  from  his  pure  hands 

Spring  fresh  wonders,  spread  new  lands; 

Son  of  God,  no  longer  child  of  fate, 

Like  God  he  shall  create. 


When,  weary  ages  hence,  this  wrong  world  is  set  right; 

When  brotherhood  is  real 

And  all  that  justice  can  for  man  is  done; 

When  the  fair,  fleeing,  anguished-for  ideal 

Turns  actual  at  last;  and  'neath  the  sun 

Man  hath  no  human  foe; 

And  even  the  brazen  sky,  and  storms  that  blow, 

And  all  the  elements  have  friendlier  proved, 


A   TEMPLE    OF   ART  363 

By  human  wit  to  human  uses  moved  — 

Ah,  still  shall  art  endure, 

And  beauty's  light  and  lure, 

To  keep  man  noble,  and  make  life  delight, 

Tho'  shadows  backward  fall  from  the  engulfing  night. 

VI 

In  a  world  of  little  aims, 
Sordid  hopes  and  futile  fames, 
Spirit  of  Beauty!  high  thy  place 
In  the  fashioning  of  the  race. 
In  this  temple,  built  to  thee, 
We  thy  worshipers  would  be, 
Lifting  up,  all  undefiled, 
Hearts  as  lowly  as  a  child; 
Humble  to  be  taught  and  led 
And  on  celestial  manna  fed; 
So  to  take  into  our  lives 
Something  that  from  Heaven  derives. 


THE   FIRE    DIVINE 


THE  FIRE  DIVINE 


THE   FIRE   DIVINE 

HE  who  hath  the  sacred  fire 

Hidden  in  his  heart  of  hearts, 

It  shall  burn  him  clean  and  pure, 

Make  him  conquer,  make  endure. 

He  to  all  things  may  aspire, 

King  of  days,  and  souls,  and  arts. 

Failure,  fright,  and  dumb  dismay 

Are  but  wings  upon  his  way. 

Imagination  and  desire 

Are  his  slaves  and  implements. 

Faiths  and  foul  calamities, 

And  the  eternal  ironies, 

Are  but  voices  in  his  choir. 

Musician  of  decreed  events  — 

Hungers,  happinesses,  hates, 

Friendships  lost,  all  adverse  fates, 

All  passions  and  all  elements, 

Are  but  golden  instruments 

In  his  glorious  symphonies. 

Subject  to  his  firm  decrees 

Are  the  heavens,  are  the  seas; 

But  in  utter  humbleness 

Reigns  he,  not  to  ban,  but  bless  — 

Cleansed,  and  conquering,  and  benign 

Bearer  of  the  fire  divine. 


368  THE  FIRE  DIVINE 

THE   INVISIBLE 

(AT  A  LECTURE) 

SUCH  pictures  of  the  heavens  were  never  seen. 
We  stood  at  the  steep  edge  of  the  "abyss 
And  looked  out  on  the  making  of  the  suns. 
The  skies  were  powdered  with  the  white  of  stars 
And  the  pale  ghosts  of  systems  yet  to  be; 
While  here  and  there  a  nebulous  spiral  told, 
Against  the  dark,  the  story  of  the  orbs  — 
From  the  impalpable  condensing  slow 
Through  ages  infinite. 

Each  mighty  shape 

Seemed  as  the  shape  of  speed  —  a  whirling  wheel 
Stupendously  revolving, 
And  yet  no  eye  of  man  may  see  it  stir. 
(That  moveless  motion  brings  to  the  human  brain 
A  hint  of  the  large  measurements  of  time  — 
Eternity  made  present.) 

Such  new  sense 

Of  magnitudes  that  make  our  world  an  atom 
Might  crush  the  soul,  did  not  this  saving  thought 
Leap  to  the  mind  and  lift  it  to  clear  hights:  — 
"  'T  is  but  the  unseen  that  grows  not  old  nor  dies, 
Suffers  not  change,  nor  waning,  nor  decay. 
This  that  we  see  —  this  casual  glimpse  within 
The  seething  pit  of  space;  these  million  stars 
And  worlds  in  making,  these  are  naught  but  matter; 
These  all  are  but  the  dust  upon  our  feet, 
And  we  who  gaze  forth  fearless  on  the  sight 
Find  not  one  equal,  facing  from  the  vast 
Our  sentient  selves.    Not  one,  sole,  lonely  star 
In  all  the  infinite  glitter  and  deep  light 
Can  make  one  conscious  movement;  all  are  slaves 


THE   OLD   FAITH  369 

To  law  material,  immutable  — 

That  Power  immense,  mysterious,  intense, 

Unseen  as  our  own  souls,  but  which  must  be 

Like  them  the  home  of  thought,  with  will  and  might 

To  stamp  on  mindless  matter  the  soul's  will. 

Yea,  in  these  souls  of  ours  triumphant  dwells 

Some  segment  of  the  large  creative  Power  — 

A  thing  beyond  the  things  of  sight  and  sense; 

A  strength  to  think,  a  force  to  conquer  force. 

One  are  we  with  the  ever-living  One." 

DESTINY 
(AFTER  READING  A  WORK  ON  ASTRONOMY) 

I  SEE  it  all ;  my  soul  the  dregs  hath  drunk 
Of  man's  last,  helpless,  hopeless  destiny; 
Born  of  the  primal  ooze,  where  slow  light  sunk, 
And  climbing  to  the  secrets  of  the  sky; 

Through  countless  million  years  the  spiral  mounts 
Till  nature,  a  companionable  slave, 
Bows  to  man's  bidding;  lo,  then,  the  deep  founts 
Run  gradual  dry,  earth  turns  its  own  chill  grave: 

The  insatiate  desert  marches  on  the  sown, 
The  sea  exhales,  the  very  air  is  gone, 
And,  gasping  in  the  silent  void,  the  race 

Dies  with  the  planet.  —  But  not  this  the  .doom 
Of  man's  outlooking  soul ;  that  hath  no  tomb, 
Being  quenchless  as  the  law  and  lord  of  space. 

THE    OLD    FAITH 

ON  that  old  faith  I  will  take  hold  once  more  — 
Now  that  the  long  waves  bear  me  to  the  shore 
And  life's  brief  voyage  is  o'er; 


370  THE   FIRE  DIVINE 

Near  is  the  looked-for  land  — 
One  wild  leap  on  the  strand 
And  the  dear  souls  I  loved  of  old 
I  shall  again  behold, 
And  arms  that  held  me  once  shall  hold  again. 

In  blinding  ways  of  men 
Long  did  I  mourning  doubt, 
Saying:  "Into  the  universe  have  they  gone  out 
And  shall  be  lost 

In  the  wide  waves  of  unseen,  infinite  force; 
For  nature  heeds  not  all  the  bitter  cost, 
But  rushes  on  its  course 
Unto  the  far,  determined  goal, 
Without  self-conscious  knowledge,  or  remorse." 
But  now  the  time  is  come,  the  test  draws  near, 
And  sudden  my  soul  is  innocent  of  fear. 

O  ye  beloved!    I  come!    I  cry 
With  the  old  passion  ye  shall  not  deny! 
I  know  you,  as  I  knew 
When  life  was  in  its  dew; 
Ah,  naught  of  me  has  suffered  inward  change, 
Nor  can  be  change  essential  even  in  you, 
However  far  the  freer  spirit's  range. 
Soul  shall  find  soul;  there  is  no  distance 
That  bars  love's  brave  insistence, 
And  nothing  truly  dies 
In  all  the  infinite  realm  of  woe  and  weal; 
Throughout  creation's  bound  thrill  answers  thrill 
And  love  to  love  replies. 

THE   DOUBTER'S    SOLILOQUY 

A  WHITE  lie,  even  as  the  black,  I  learned  to  hate; 
Being  taught  clear  truth  by  honest  parentage, 


THE  DOUBTER'S  SOLILOQUY          371 

And,  haply,  somewhat  morbid  in  this  matter. 

'T  would  come,  I  fear,  not  easy  to  deceive 

Even  death-beds,  for  their  good,  that  men,  indeed, 

Might,  as  they  say,  "die  happy."    (Not  that  I 

Have  never  eased,  by  little  lies  that  helped, — 

Being  gray  with  years, —  to  smooth  a  neighbor's  path, 

Or  even  mine  own.)    And  when  I've  read  brave  tales 

Wherein  the  hero  like  a  hero  lied, 

And  saved  the  other  hero  from  some  shame, 

Or  loss,  or  ill  that  seemed  itself  a  lie, 

Such  tragi-comedies,  I've  thought,  mayhap 

Argued  a  sophist  mind  in  them  who  wrote. 

Once  reading  such  a  pretty  history 
The  thought  came  on  me  with  a  sickening  stroke : 
"But  what  of  all  the  martyrs  who  died  singing, 
Smiling  and  singing  in  the  face  of  pain, 
Of  tortured,  useless  death ;  seeing  just  beyond 
The  flame,  the  scorch,  the  shudder  —  sudden  joy; 
Joy  so  intense  it  threw  a  splendor  back 
Into  the  midst  of  unfelt  agonies! 
And  what  of  those,  the  unknown  martyrdoms, 
The  myriads  of  faithful,  humble  souls 
Who  horribly  suffered  through  long,  faithful  lives, 
Seeing  the  peace  of  God  beyond  the  strife! 
What  of  all  these  if  there  be  no  awakening? 
If  He  permitted  the  Colossal  Lie 
As  opiate  for  the  agony  of  life  — 
Who  were  the  sophist  then?" 

But  a  voice  spake 

And  said:  "Your  argument  requires  a  God 
All  powerful,  all  present,  and  all  wise, 
Who  could  prevent  false  notions  of  Himself 
And  His  designs  to  fasten  on  men's  minds. 
If  such  a  God  exists,  this  is  most  sure  — 


372  THE  FIRE  DIVINE 

He  wills  not  to  make  plain  His  character 

And  mode  of  government;  witness  through  time 

A  thousand  gods,  religions  without  end, 

Each  in  some  souls, —  all  reverent  and  sincere, — 

Supreme,  unquestioned;  gods  that  grimly  held 

Races  and  ages  round  about  their  thrones. 

"  Your  very  doubt  creates  a  mighty  Power, 
Invisible,  yet  having  human  traits, 
And  Him  you  judge  with  your  sole,  finite  mind  — 
You  doubt,  you  dread,  you  trouble  your  sad  soul. 
Were  it  not  best  to  follow  those  twin  stars 
Which  light  each  mortal  path:  the  double  stars 
Of  Love  and  Duty  ?   If  by  these  you  walk 
(This  has  been  proved),  a  solace  shall  arrive  — 
A  noble  solace,  a  majestic  joy. 
Whatever  of  life  is  worthy  of  the  soul 
Then  shall  be  yours.    Disdain,  disdain  all  else!" 

LAW 

TRUE  love  to  liberty  is  never  foe, 
And  he  who  truly  loves  is  truly  free : 
Thus  thought  I  when  I  heard  the  pulsing  flow 
Of  mighty  music  rushing  gloriously 

Along  the  channels  of  unchanging  law; 

Thus  thought  I  when  I  gazed  upon  the  skies 
And  there  the  circling  universe  I  saw 
Moving  obedient  in  glad  harmonies 

About  a  central,  inescapable  power: 
No  sun,  nor  planet,  nor  wild  comet's  course 
But  owns  that  sway  in  every  separate  hour 

Of  all  its  centuries;  to  that  one  force 

Freely  it  yields,  —  as  hearts  that  never  rove, 
But  pour  their  being  in  a  single  love. 


IDENTITY  373 

IDENTITY 

AND  can  it  be? 

The  heart  that  in  the  earth's  far  dawn  knew  God; 

The  thought  that  seized  the  circling  of  the  stars; 

The  soul  of  fire  that  on  that  hill  of  Athens 

Builded  immortal  beauty;  the  brain  enorm 

That  peopled  for  all  men  and  for  all  time 

A  world  Shakespearian;  and  can  it  be?  — 

The  mind  imperial  named  Beethoven, 

Majestically  chanting  harmonies 

That  hold  the  motions  of  the  rhythmic  worlds, 

And  to  far  doomsday  stir  all  living  hearts; 

And  he  the  framer  of  earth's  mightiest  dome, 

Painter  sublime  and  poet  marvelous, 

Who  carved  the  likeness  of  his  soul  in  stone, 

And  in  cold  marble  the  hot  heart  of  man 

Imprisoned  eternally ;  and  can  it  be  ?  — 

These,  these  and  all  the  potencies  of  time 

Which  throbbed  in  human  form;  and  can  it  be 

That  the  intensive  fire  which  made  them  men, 

Not  trees,  nor  creeping  beasts,  nor  stones,  nor  stars, 

And  gave  identity  to  every  soul 

Making  it  individual  and  alone 

Among  the  myriads;  and  can  it  be 

That,  when  the  mortal  framework  failed,  this  fire, — 

Which  flamed  in  separate  and  lonely  life, — 

These  souls,  slipt  out  of  being  and  were  lost, 

Eternally  extinguished  and  cast  out: 

Only  to  some  obscure  electric  wave 

Giving  new  force,  to  some  stray  flower  new  grace, 

Unto  some  lover's  vow  more  ardency; 

Making  some  island  sunset  more  intense, 

Passing  from  fiery  thought  to  chemic  heat  — 


374  THE  FIRE  DIVINE 

But  all  the  universe  empty  of  that  one  high 
And  exquisite  accomplishment  and  power, 
Forever  and  forever  —  can  it  be  ? 


"SPARE   ME    MY   DREAMS" 
i 

RELENTLESS  Time,  that  gives  both  harsh  and  kind, 

Brave  let  me  be 
To  take  thy  various  gifts  with  equal  mind, 

And  proud  humility; 

But,  even  by  day,  while  the  full  sunlight  streams, 
Give  me  my  dreams! 


Whatever,  Time,  thou  takest  from  my  heart, 

What  from  my  life, 
From  what  dear  thing  thou  yet  may'st  make  me  part 

Plunge  not  too  deep  the  knife; 
As  dies  the  day,  and  the  long  twilight  gleams, 
Spare  me  my  dreams! 

HYMN 

(THANKSGIVING  FOR  SAINTS  AND  PROPHETS) 

To  Thee,  Eternal  Soul,  be  praise! 
Who,  from  of  old  to  our  own  days 
Through  souls  of  saints  and  prophets,  Lord, 
Hast  sent  Thy  light,  Thy  love,  Thy  word. 

We  thank  Thee  for  each  mighty  one 
Through  whom  Thy  living  light  hath  shone; 
And  for  each  humble  soul  and  sweet 
That  lights  to  heaven  our  wandering  feet. 


THE   VALLEY   OF   LIFE  375 

We  thank  Thee  for  the  love  divine 
Made  real  in  every  saint  of  Thine; 
That  boundless  love  itself  that  gives 
In  service  to  each  soul  that  lives. 

We  thank  Thee  for  the  word  of  might 
The  Spirit  spake  in  darkest  night; 
Spake  through  the  trumpet  voices  loud 
Of  prophets  at  Thy  throne  who  bowed. 

Eternal  Soul,  our  souls  keep  pure, 
That  like  Thy  saints  we  may  endure; 
Forever  through  Thy  servants,  Lord, 
Send  Thou  Thy  light,  Thy  love,  Thy  word. 

THE   VALLEY    OF   LIFE 

WHEN  I  was  a  child  joyfully  I  ran,  hand  claspt  in 
hand,  now  with  my  mother,  now  with  my  father,  or  with 
younger,  blithe  companions,  now  in  sunlight,  now  in 
shadow  and  dread,  through  the  strange  new  Valley  of 
Life. 

Sometimes  on  the  high-road,  then  over  the  fields  and 
meadows,  or  through  the  solemn  forests;  sometimes  along 
the  happy  brook-side,  listening  to  its  music  or  the  clamor 
of  the  falls,  as  the  pleasant  waters  hurried  or  grew  still, 
in  the  winding  way  down  the  Valley  of  Life. 

And  as  we  moved  along,  hand  claspt  in  hand,  sometimes 
the  hand-clasp  was  broken,  and  I,  a  happy  child,  ran 
swiftly  aside  from  the  path  to  gather  flower  or  fruit  or  get 
sight  of  a  singing  bird;  or  to  lean  down  and  pluck  a  pearly 
stone  from  under  the  lapping  waves;  or  climbed  a  tree 
and  swayed,  shouting,  on  its  waving  boughs  —  then 
returning  to  the  clasp  of  loving  hands,  and  so  passing  on 
and  on  down  the  opening  Valley  of  Life. 


THE   FIRE  DIVINE 

In  the  bright  morning  I  walked  wondering;  wondering 
I  walked  through  the  still  twilight  and  many-colored 
sunset;  watching  the  great  stars  gather,  and  lost  in  the 
mystery  of  worlds  beyond  number,  and  spaces  beyond 
thought,  till,  side  by  side,  we  lay  down  to  sleep  under  the 
stars  in  the  Valley  of  Life  and  of  Dreams. 

Then  there  came  a  time  when  the  hands  that  held  me, 

—  the  loving  hands  that  guided  my  steps  and  drew  me 
gently  on, —  turned  cold,  and  slipt  from  my  grasp;  I 
waited,  but  they  came  not  back,  and  slowly  and  alone 
I  plodded  on  down  the  Valley  of  Life  and  of  Death. 

"Where  went  they?"  I  asked  my  heart  and  the 
whispering  waters  and  the  sighing  trees.  "  Where  went 
my  loving  and  well-beloved  guides?  Did  they  climb  the 
hills  and  tarry;  did  they,  tired,  lie  down  to  sleep  and  for 
get  me  forever;  leaving  me  to  journey  on  without  their 
dear  care  down  the  long  Valley  of  Life?" 

I  could  not  know,  for  I  heard  no  answer  except  my  own 
heart's  beating.  But  other  comrades  came, —  one  dearer 
than  all, —  and  as  time  went  on  I  felt  the  little  hands  of 
my  own  children  clasping  mine  while,  once  more  happy 
and  elate,  with  them  I  traveled  down  the  miraculous  Val 
ley  of  Life. 

But,  as  on  we  wander,  hearing  their  bright  voices,  and 
seeing  their  joy  upon  the  way, —  their  happy  chasings 
here  and  there,  their  eager  run  to  hold  again  our  hands, 

—  how  soon,  I  think,  shall  I  feel  the  slipping  away  of  the 
clasping  fingers  while  I  fall  asleep  by  the  wayside,  or 
climb  the  cloud-enveloped  hills,  and  leave  those  I  love 
to  journey  on  down  the  lonely  Valley  of  Life? 

And  I  say :  "  Surely  the  day  and  the  hour  hasten ;  grief 
will  be  theirs  for  a  season ;  then  will  they,  as  did  I,  with 
brave  hearts  journey  on  the  appointed  way."  But  where 
then  shall  my  spirit  rest  ?  Will  it  sink  unconscious  into 


TO  ONE  IMPATIENT  OF  FORM  IN  ART   377 

endless  night?  or  shall  I,  in  some  new  dawn,  and  by  some 
unimagined  miracle  not  less  than  that  which  brought  me 
here,  wander,  with  those  that  led  me  once,  and  those  I 
led,  hand  claspt  in  hand,  as  of  old,  by  the  murmuring 
waters  and  under  the  singing  trees  of  the  ever-wonderful, 
the  never-ending  Valley  of  Life  ? 


TO  ONE  IMPATIENT  OF  FORM  IN  ART 
i 

CHIDE  not  the  poet  that  he  strives  for  beauty, 
If  still  forthright  he  chants  the  thing  he  would  - 

If  still  he  knows,  nor  can  escape,  the  dire 
Necessity  and  burden  of  straight  speech ; 

Not  his  the  fault  should  music  haunt  the  stroke, 
When  to  the  marrow  cleaves  the  lyric  knife. 

Who  poured  the  violent  ocean,  and  who  called 
Earthquake  and  tempest  and  the  crash  of  doom, 

He  spread  the  sea  all  beautiful  at  dawn, 

And  curved  the  bright  bow  'gainst  the  black,  spent  storm; 

He  framed  these  late  and  lovely  violets 
That  under  autumn  leaves  surprise  the  heart. 

Blame  not  the  seeker  of  beauty  if  his  soul 
Seeks  it,  in  reverent  and  determined  quest, 

And  in  the  sacred  love  of  loveliness 

Which  God,  the  all-giver,  gave  —  and  satisfies; 

Fearing  lest  he  match  not  life's  poignant  breath 
And  the  keen  beauty  of  the  blossoming  day. 


378  THE  FIRE  DIVINE 


No  poet  he  who  knows  not  the  great  joy 
That  pulses  in  the  flow  and  rush  of  rhythm, — 

Rhythm  which  is  the  seed  and  life  of  life, 

And  of  all  art  the  root,  and  branch,  and  bloom, — 

Knows  not  the  strength  that  comes  when  vibrant  thought 
Beats  'gainst  the  bounds  of  fixed  time  and  space; 

For  law  unto  the  master  is  pure  freedom, 
The  prison-house  a  garden  of  delight. 

So  doth  the  blown  breath  from  the  bugle's  walls 
Issue  in  most  triumphant  melody; 

So  doth  the  impassioned  poet's  perfect  verse, 
Confined  in  law  eternal,  mate  the  stars. 

TO    THE   POET 

LET  not  thy  listening  spirit  be  abashed 

By  the  majestic  ranks  of  ancient  bards 

Or  all  the  clarion  singers  of  thy  day : 

For  in  thy  true  and  individual  song 

Thou  art  a  voice  of  nature;  as  the  wind, 

And  cries  of  moving  waters,  and  all  shows 

And  speaking  symbols  of  the  universe 

Are  but  the  glorious  sound  and  utterance 

Of  the  mysterious  power  that  spake  the  Word  — 

The  immense  first  word  that  filled  with  splendid  light 

And  vibrant  potency  the  house  of  life; 

Whose  candles  are  a  million,  million  stars, 

Whose  windows  look  on  gulfs  unthinkable 

That  bound  our  world.   Think  not  on  thine  own  self, 


COMPENSATION  379 

But  on  the  enormous  currents  silently 
That  flood  the  unseen  channels  of  still  force, 
Or  with  the  sound  of  earthquake  and  the  shout 
Of  circling  storms  complete  an  unknown  doom. 

Thine  is  the  fate  and  function  mystical, 
In  forms  of  lyric  and  eternal  art, 
Clearly  to  utter  and  re-syllable 
The  primal  Word:  —  So  is  thy  verse  of  kin 
To  the  sea-shell,  the  lily,  and  the  leaf. 
It  hath  a  natural  right  and  majesty, 
Being  of  the  infinite,  all-evolving  power 
True  jet  and  symbol;  kin  to  the  morning  star 
That  in  the  sky  of  dawn  sings  with  its  mates. 

COMPENSATION 

THE  Angel  of  Life  stood  forth  on  the  threshold  of  Birth 
And  converse  held  with  a  spirit  about  to  be  born; 
And  the  Angel  announced  to  the  Soul  awaiting  its  world: 
Choose  thou !  for  now  thou  must  choose,  and  never  here 
after. 

And  if  thou  to  beauty  shalt  bow,  to  Beauty  and  Art, 
And  if  to  thy  spirit  all  exquisite  things  be  revealed, 
If  the  fate  of  the  poet  be  thine,  if  a  god  thou  wouldst  be, 
If  thou  in  thy  soul  wouldst  joyfully  seize  and  encompass 
The  glories  and  grandeurs  of  earth,  the  sweetness  supreme, 
The  vision  angelic,  forbidden  to  eyes  unanointed, 
The  melodies  silent  to  all  save  the  holy  of  spirit, 
The  signs  and  the  secrets,  the  splendors,  the  exaltations, 
If  these  thou  shalt  choose,  if  these  thou  wouldst  know 

and  impart, 

Even  so  —  but  forget  not  the  price  of  the  infinite  wisdom, 
For  the  price  of  the  passion  of  joy  is  the  passion  of  sorrow, 
And  the  cost  of  thy  heaven  is  the  burning  and  anguish  of 
hell. 


380  THE  FIRE  DIVINE 

THE   POET'S    SECRET 

THE  secret  —  he  has  learned  it 

And  only,  only  he : 
Heaven  in  his  heart  hath  burned  it; 

To  him  alone  't  is  free, 
And  them  from  him  who  learned  it 

In  wise  simplicity. 
From  thousand  suns  it  flashes, 

It  leaps  in  flower  and  flame; 
The  spring,  from  winter's  ashes, 

Cries  out  its  silent  name  — 
The  secret  of  the  ages 

That,  to  the  poet  came. 
Unknown  to  all  the  sages, 

However  wise  they  be, 
Through  his  quick  veins  it  rages 

And  soul  of  ecstasy; 
It  lightnings  from  his  pages, 

In  all  his  songs  't  is  sung : 
The  secret  of  the  ages  — 

To  be  forever  young. 

"THE  DAY  BEGAN  AS  OTHER  DAYS  BEGIN 

THE  day  began  as  other  days  begin, 

The  round  of  work,  the  implacable  city's  din; 

The  New  World's  Babel,  louder  with  each  hour. 

Then  in  a  by-way, —  a  still,  secret  bower, — 
A  temple  given  to  silence  and  to  books; 
And  in  its  heart  a  sacred  nook  of  nooks. 
There,  in  the  silence,  from  a  priceless  store 
Of  written  tomes,  a  guardian  of  their  lore 
A  manuscript  uplifted  to  my  view, 
With  reverent,  loving  hands — and  then  withdrew. 


A  POET'S  QUESTION  381 

Opening  the  book  my  gaze  fell  on  that  line 
Wherein  the  marvelous  poet,  the  divine 
Singer  of  Endymion,  his  deathless  song 
Began,  and  so  beginning  made  immortal. 

O  dead,  undying  bard !  now  all  the  wrong 
Fate  did  thee  rose;  through  Memory's  draped  portal 
Trooped,  in  wan  figures,  all  thy  tragic  story  — 
But  mightier  still  the  wonder  and  the  glory 
Of  that  white  page  whereon  thy  soul  was  poured. 
Then  with  thy  spirit  my  spirit  likewise  soared; 
Something  immortal  entered  in  this  breast 
Miraculously;  and  like  one  confessed 
And  throughly  shriven,  back  to  the  world  I  turned 
While  a  new  heart  within  me  flamed  and  burned. 

And  yet  that  morn,  when  grew  the  glare  and  din, 
The  day  began,  as  other  days  begin. 

A  POET'S  QUESTION 

WHAT,  then,  shall  make  these  songs  of  mine  more  real; 

More  tuneful,  piercing,  bright  —  miraculous, 

As  art  should  be?    Shall  some  high,  fortunate  chant, 

Some  song  to  come,  flood  backward  on  them  all, — 

Over  every  word  in  all  the  singing  flock, — 

A  light,  a  meaning;  a  power  to  seize,  to  thrill; 

A  swift  beatitude  and  haunting  beauty; 

Shall  make  of  them  a  trouble  to  the  base, 

Scourge  to  the  false,  sun  to  the  darkened  soul, 

Help  to  the  fainting,  succor  to  the  bruised, 

A  judgment  to  the  heeding  and  unheeding? 

Or  shall  a  flame  leap  from  the  singer's  flight, 

Making  them  luminous  in  sudden  dawn  — 

Bright  in  the  chrism  of  Death. 


382  THE  FIRE  DIVINE 

PRELUDE    FOR    "A    BOOK    OF    MUSIC " 

WITHOUT  intent,  I  find  a  book  I've  writ 
And  music  is  the  pleasant  theme  of  it; 
For  tho'  I  can  no  music  make,  I  trust 
Here's  proof  I  love  it. 

Tho'  no  reasoning  fine 
Should  any  ask  to  show  this  art  divine, 
Yet  have  I  known  even  poets  who  refuse 
To  name  pure  music  as  an  equal  muse. 
If  music  pleased  them,  't  was  not  deeply  felt, 
And  in  its  charms  they  deemed  it  shame  to  melt; 
For  that,  they  held,  it  is  an  art  where  might 
Even  children  give  its  votaries  delight, 
And  therefore  lacking  in  the  things  of  mind. 

But  't  is  not  argued  well.   There  is  a  kind 
Of  music  that  a  little  child  can  give, 
Echoing  great  masters;  but  the  masters  live 
Not  in  such  echo  —  elfish,  immature; 
'T  is  but  a  part  of  them.   Ah,  be  ye  sure 
Tho'  lovely,  not  the  loveliest;  that  must  wait 
For  him  who  noble  moods  can  recreate 
With  solemn,  subtile,  and  deep-thoughted  art 
That  wins  the  mind  or  e'er  it  takes  the  heart. 
For  that  a  child  may  gracious  music  make 
Is  but  a  sign  that  music  doth  partake 
Of  something  deep,  primeval,  that  began 
When  God  dreamed  of  Himself,  and  fashioned  man. 
'T  is  near  the  source  of  being;  it  repeats 
The  vibrancy  that  runs  in  rhythmic  beats 
Through  all  the  shaken  universe;  and  tho' 
Its  language  shall  take  not  the  ebb  and  flow 
Of  speech  articulate,  it  is  that  tone 


PRELUDE   FOR    "A   BOOK   OF   MUSIC "     383 

Cleaves  closer  to  life's  core;  the  thing  alone 
Well-nigh  it  is,  not  thought  about  the  thing; 
No  pictured  flight  across  a  painted  sky  — 
The  bird  itself,  the  beating  of  its  wing; 
The  pang  that  is  a  cry; 
Not  human  language,  but  pure  ecstasy. 

In  this  my  BOOK  OF  Music  which  hath  come 
As  does  a  lover's  litany  by  some 
Miraculous  chance,  with  added  song  to  song, 
I  trust  I  have  my  Lady  done  no  wrong, 
My  Lady  of  Melody  I  worshipt  long. 

Blameless  the  artist  praises  the  sweet  rose 
If  in  his  art  he  aim  not  to  compose 
An  image,  all  inanimate,  that  seeks 
To  copy  shrewdly  those  inviolate  cheeks 
Or  the  rich,  natural  odor  imitate; 
But  shows,  as  best  he  can,  its  grace  and  state, 
The  love  that  in  him  burns  for  this  fair  flower, 
And  all  his  joy  therein,  for  one  sweet  hour. 
Nor  shall  the  poet  subtly  strive  to  phrase 
For  any  heart  save  his  what  music  says; 
For, —  as  before  the  autumn  skies  and  woods, — 
A  meaning  gleams  through  our  own  human  moods  : 
Yet  is  the  meaning  real;  and  many  a  wound 
Wherewith  our  spirits  are  beaten  to  the  ground 
Heals  'neath  the  sanctity  of  noble  sound. 

Ah,  not  to  match  the  music  of  the  wires 
Or  trembling  breath,  the  instruments  and  choirs, 
But  to  tell  truly  how  that  moves  the  soul 
In  the  impassionate  and  rhythmic  word, 
By  poesy's  proper  art — which  must  be  heard 


384  THE  FIRE  DIVINE 

Even  as  music  is!   Not  to  forget 
The  viol  and  the  harp,  the  clarinet, 
The  booming  organ;  too,  the  intertwined 
Voices  wherewith  the  sounding,  rich  clavier, 
Struck  by  the  master's  hand,  enchants  the  ear  — 
If  so  may  be  to  catch  a  fleeting  strain 
And  in  new  art  imprison  it  again ! 
Then  let  him  list  to  music  who  would  rhyme; 
For  every  art,  tho'  separate,  may  learn, 
From  the  great  souls  in  all,  how  to  make  burn 
Brighter  the  light  of  beauty  through  all  time. 
And  scorn  not  thou  to  read  of  music's  power 
Over  one  soul  that  in  great  humbleness 
His  memory  brings  of  many  a  happy  hour, 
Hoping  these  echoed  tones  some  wounded  heart  may 
bless. 

MUSIC  AT  TWILIGHT 


O,  GIVE  me  music  in  the  twilight  hour! 
Then,  skilled  musician!  thou  of  the  magic  power, 
Summon  the  souls  of  masters  long  since  gone 
Who  through  thine  art  live  on! 

As  the  day  dies  I  would  once  more  respire 
The  passion  of  that  spirit  whose  keen  fire 
Flashes  and  flames  in  yearning  and  unrest 
And  never-ending  quest. 

Or  listen  to  the  quick,  electric  tones, 
Or  moods  of  majesty,  of  him  who  owns 
The  secret  of  the  thrill  that  shakes  the  earth 
And  moves  the  stars  in  mirth 


MUSIC  AT   TWILIGHT  385 

And  I  would  walk  the  shore  of  sound  with  him 
Whose  voice  was  as  the  voice  of  cherubim : 
Musician  most  authentic  and  sublime 
Of  all  the  sons  of  time. 

Bring  their  deep  joys,  the  breath  of  solitudes, 
Dear  dreams  and  longings,  and  high,  hero  moods; 
Ay,  bring  me  their  melodious  despairs 
To  die  in  twilight  airs. 

For,  given  a  rhythmic  voice,  re-uttered  so, 
Sorrow  itself  is  lost  in  the  large  flow 
Of  nature;  and  of  life  is  made  such  part 
As  doth  enrich  the  heart; 

And  on  the  tide  of  music,  to  my  soul 
Shall  enter  beauty's  solace  —  life  be  whole, 
Not  broken  by  chords  discordant,  but  most  sweet, 
In  sequent  tones  complete. 

ii 

Great  is  the  true  interpreter,  for  like 
No  other  art,  two  sentient  souls  must  strike 
The  spark  of  music  that  in  blackness  lies 
'Mid  silent  harmonies, 

Till,  at  a  cunning  touch,  the  long-lost  theme 
Newly  imagined,  and  new-born  in  dream, 
Clothed  gloriously  in  garment  of  sweet  sound 
Wakes  from  its  darkened  swound. 

So  would  I  ask,  Musician !  of  thy  grace 
That  thou  wouldst  bless  and  sanctify  the  place 
With  august  harmonies,  well-loved  of  old;  — 
But  from  thy  manifold 


386  THE  FIRE  DIVINE 

Miraculous  memory  fail  not  of  thine  own 
Imaginings  enraptured  of  pure  tone, 
That  I  may  nearer  draw  to  music's  shrine, 
And  mystery  divine. 

MUSIC  IN  MOONLIGHT 

WAS  ever  music  lovelier  than  to-night? 

'T  was  Schumann's  Song  of  Moonlight ;  o'er  the  vale 

The  new  moon  lingered  near  the  western  hills; 

The  hearth-fire  glimmered  low;  but  melting  tones 

Blotted  all  else  from  memory  and  thought, 

And  all  the  world  was  music.   Wondrous  hour! 

Then  sank  anew  into  our  tranced  hearts 

One  secret  and  deep  lesson  of  sweet  sound  — 

The  loveliness  that  from  unloveliness 

Outsprings,  flooding  the  soul  with  poignant  joy, 

As  the  harmonious  chords  to  harsh  succeed, 

And  the  rapt  spirit  climbs  through  pain  to  bliss: 

Eternal  question,  answer  infinite; 

As  day  to  night  replies ;  as  light  to  shade ; 

As  summer  to  rough  winter;  death  to  life  — 

Death  not  a  closing,  but  an  opening  door; 

A  deepened  life,  a  prophecy  fulfilled. 

Not  in  the  very  present  comes  reply, 
But  in  the  flow  of  time.   Should  the  song  cease 
Too  soon;  ere  yet  the  rooted  answer  blooms, 
Lo,  what  a  pang  of  loss  and  dissonance! 
But  time  with  the  resolving  and  intended  tone 
Heals  all,  and  makes  all  beautiful  and  right. 
Even  so  our  mortal  music-makers  frame 
Their  messages  melodious  to  men; 
Even  so  the  Eternal  His  high  harmonies 
Fashions,  supreme,  of  life,  and  fate,  and  time. 


THE   VOICE  387 

THE  UNKNOWN  SINGER 

ONE  singer  in  the  oratorio, 

Her  only  did  I  see,  nor  can  forget; 

Nor  knew  her  name,  nor  have  I  seen  her  more, 

Nor  could  I  in  the  chorus  find  her  voice. 

Her  swaying,  gracious  form,  her  face  alight 

As  with  an  inner  flame  of  melody  — 

These  seized  me;  seemed  the  white  embodiment 

Of  all  the  angelic  voices  richly  poured 

In  a  great  rushing  and  harmonious  flood. 

That  human  form,  all  beautiful  and  bright, 

Lived  the  pure,  conscious,  glorious  instrument 

Wherethrough  the  master  made  his  message  felt  — 

Conscious,  but  with  no  shallow  vanity, 

A  breathing  image  of  a  thought  in  sound, 

A  living  statue,  symbol  of  a  tone. 

That  which  she  sang  she  was;  and,  unaware, 

Made  music  visible  not  less  than  heard. 

THE  VOICE 

RICH  is  the  music  of  sweet  instruments,  — 
The  separate  harp,  cornet,  oboe,  and  flute, 
The  deep-souled  viola,  the  'cello  grave, 
The  many-mooded,  singing  violin, 
The  infinite,  triumphing,  ivoried  clavier; 
And  when,  with  art  mysterious,  some  god 
Thrills  into  one  the  lone  and  various  tones, 
Then  is  no  hiding  passion  of  the  heart, 
No  sigh  of  evening  winds,  no  breath  of  dawn, 
No  hope  or  hate  of  man  that  is  not  told. 

But  when  a  human  voice  leaps  from  that  surge, 
*T  is  as  a  flower  that  bursts  from  th'  trembling  earth; 


388  THE   FIRE  DIVINE 

Something  more  wonderful  assails  the  soul, 
As,  with  exultant  cries,  up-curving,  swift, 
The  shrill  Walkiire  clamor  against  the  sky, 
Or  pale  Briinhilde  moans  her  bitter  fate. 


WAGNER 

• 

THIS  is  the  eternal  mystery  of  art : 
He  told  the  secretest  secret  of  his  heart  — 
How  many  mortals,  with  quick-flaming  brow, 
Whispered,  "Lo,  this  am  I  —and  that  art  thou!" 

"THE  PATHETIC  SYMPHONY" 
(TSCHAIKOWSKY) 

WHEN  the  last  movement  fell,  I  thought :   Ah,  me ! 

Death  this  indeed;  but  still  the  music  poured 

On  and  still  on.   O,  deathlier  it  grew, 

And  then,  at  last,  my  beating  heart  stood  still  — 

Beyond  all  natural  grief  the  music  passing, 

Beyond  all  tragedy,  or  last  farewell. 

Then,  on  that  fatal  tide,  dismayed  I  felt 

This  living  soul,  my  own,  without  one  tear, 

Slowly,  irrevocably,  and  alone, 

Enter  the  ultimate  silence  and  the  dark. 

MACDOWELL 

REJOICE!   Rejoice! 

The  New  WTorld  hath  a  voice; 

A  voice  of  tragedy  and  mirth, 

Sounding  clear  through  all  the  earth; 

A  voice  of  music,  tender  and  sublime, 

Kin  to  the  master-music  of  all  time. 


A    FANTASY    OF    CHOPIN  389 

Hear  ye,  and  know, — 

While  the  chords  throb  with  poignant  pause  and  flow, — 
Of  the  New  World  the  mystic,  lyric  heart, 
Breathed  in  undaunted  art: 
Her  pomp  of  days,  her  glittering  nights; 
The  rich  surprise 
And  miracle  of  iridescent  skies; 
Her  lovely  lowlands  and  imperial  hights; 
Her  glooms  and  gladness; 
Her  oceans  thundering  on  a  thousand  shores; 
Her  wild-wood  madness; 

Her  streams  adream  with  memory  that  deplores 
The  red  inhabitants  evanished  and  undone 
That  follow,   follow   to  far  lands  beyond   the   setting 

sun. 

And  echoes  one  may  hear  of  ancient  lores 
From  the  Old  World's  well-loved  shores  — 
Primal  loves,  and  quenchless  hates; 
Striving  lives,  and  conquering  fates; 
Elves  innocently  antic 
Or  wild-eyed,  frantic; 
Shadow-heroes,  passionate,  gigantic — 
Sons  and  daughters  of  the  prime 
That  moved  the  mighty  bards  to  noble  rhyme. 

Rejoice!  Rejoice! 
The  New  World  hath  new  music,  and  a  voice. 

A  FANTASY  OF  CHOPIN 

(GABRILOWITSCH) 

LIGHTNINGS  and  tremblings  and  a  voice  of  thunder; 

But  when  the  winds  are  down,  and  spent  the  showers  — 
At  the  vast  mountain's  base,  the  sheer  cliffs  under, 

How  sweet  the  summer  flowers! 


39°  THE   FIRE  DIVINE 

"HOW  STRANGE  THE  MUSICIAN'S  MEMORY" 

How  strange  the  musician's  memory,  never  wrong 
In  symphony,  sonata,  fugue,  or  song ! 
Sees  he  the  score  with  wide,  unseeing  eyes, 
Or  is  it  sound  his  heart  doth  memorize  ? 
What  is  it  like?   Behold,  from  out  the  west, 
The  long  light  on  the  wild  wave's  flying  crest. 
See  the  swift  gleam  rush  up  the  leaning  strand 
And  die  in  foam  upon  the  singing  sand. 

"IN  A  NIGHT  OF  MIDSUMMER" 

IN  a  night  of  midsummer,  on  the  still  eastern  shore  of 
the  ocean  inlet, 

In  our  hearts  a  sense  of  the  inaudible  pulsings  of  the 
unseen,  infinite  sea, 

Suddenly  through  the  clear,  cool  air,  arose  the  voice  of 
a  wonderful  tenor;  soaring  and  sobbing  in  the  music  of 
"Otello." 

I  knew  that  the  singer  was  long  dead ;  I  knew  well  that 
it  was  not  his  living  voice; 

And  yet  truly  it  was  as  the  voice  of  a  living  man ;  tho* 
heard  as  through  a  veil,  still  was  it  human;  still  was  it 
living;  still  was  it  tragic; 

Still  felt  I  the  fire  of  the  spirit  of  a  man ;  I  was  moved 
by  the  passion  of  his  art;  I  perceived  the  flower  and 
essence  of  his  person;  the  exquisite  expression  of  his 
mind  and  soul; 

His  soul  it  was  that  seized  my  soul,  through  his  voice, 
which  was  as  the  very  voice  of  sorrow; 

And  then  I  thought :  If  man,  by  science  and  search 
ing,  can  build  a  cunning  instrument  that  takes  over  and 
keeps,  beyond  the  term  of  human  existence,  the  essence 
and  flower  of  a  man's  art; 


JOHN   PAUL   JONES  391 

If  he  can  recreate  that  most  individual  attribute,  his 
articulate  and  musical  voice,  and  thus  the  very  art  and 
passion  which  that  voice  conveys, 

Why  may  not  the  Supreme  Artificer,  when  the  human 
body  is  utterly  dissolved  and  dispersed,  recover  and  keep 
forever,  in  some  new  and  delicate  structure,  the  living 
soul  itself? 

IN  THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS 

MOUNTAINS  in  whose  vast  shadows  live  great  names, 

On  whose  firm  pillars  rest  mysterious  dawns, 

And  sunsets  that  redream  the  apocalypse; 

A  world  of  billowing  green  that,  veil  on  veil, 

Turns  a  blue  mist  and  melts  in  lucent  skies; 

A  silent  world,  save  for  slow  waves  of  wind, 

Or  sudden,  hollow  clamor  of  huge  rocks 

Beaten  by  valleyed  waters  manifold;  — 

Airs  that  to  breathe  is  life  and  joyousness; 

Days  dying  into  music;  nights  whose  stars 

Shine  near,  and  large,  and  lustrous;  these,  O  these, 

These  are  for  memory  to  life's  ending  hour. 

JOHN  PAUL  JONES 

i 

BEHOLD  our  first  great  warrior  of  the  sea 
Who,  in  our  war  to  make  the  half  world  free, 
His  knightly  sword  in  noble  anger  drew! 
Born  to  the  Old,  he  visioned  clear  the  New. 

H 

Born  to  the  New  —  and  shall  we  lose  our  faith 
And  mourn  for  freedom  as  a  fleeing  wraith  ? 
Or  heroes  swift  as  he,  and  valorous,  find 
In  bloodless  battles  of  the  unfettered  mind! 


392  THE   FIRE  DIVINE 

TO   EMMA  LAZARUS 


DEAR  bard  and  prophet,  that  thy  rest  is  deep 

Thanks  be  to  God  !   Not  now  on  thy  heart  falls 

Rumor  intolerable.   Sleep,  O  sleep! 

See  not  the  blood  of  Israel  that  crawls, 
Warm  yet,  into  the  noon  and  night;  that  cries 

Even  as  of  old,  till  all  the  world  stands  still 

At  rapine  that  even  to  Israel's  agonies 

Seems  strange  and  monstrous,  a  mad  dream  of  ill. 
Thou  sleepest  !   Yea,  but  as  in  grief  we  said  : 

There  is  a  spiritual  life  unconquerable; 

So,  bard  of  the  ancient  people,  tho'  being  dead 
Thou  speakest,  and  thy  voice  we  love  full  well. 

Never  thy  holy  memory  forsakes  us; 

Thy  spirit  is  the  trumpet  that  awakes  us! 

CARL  SCHURZ 

IN  youth  he  braved  a  monarch's  ire 

To  set  the  people's  poet  free; 
Then  gave  his  life,  his  fame,  his  fire 

To  the  long  praise  of  liberty. 

His  life,  his  fame,  his  all  he  gave 
That  not  on  earth  should  live  one  slave; 
True  freedom  of  the  soul  he  sought 
And  in  that  battle  well  he  fought. 

He  fought,  and  yet  he  loved  not  war, 
But  looked  and  labored  for  the  day 

When  the  loud  cannon  silent  are 
And  holy  peace  alone  hath  sway. 


GEORGE    MACDONALD  393 

Ah,  what  a  life !   From  youth  to  age 
Keeping  the  faith,  in  noble  rage. 
Ah,  what  a  life!   From  knightly  youth 
Servant  and  champion  of  the  truth. 

Not  once,  in  all  his  length  of  days, 
That  falchion  flashed  for  paltry  ends; 

So  wise,  so  pure,  his  words  and  ways, 
Even  those  he  conquered  rose  his  friends. 

For  went  no  rancor  with  the  blow; 
The  wrong  and  not  the  man,  his  foe. 
He  smote  not  meanly,  not  in  wrath; 
That  truth  might  speed  he  cleaved  a  path. 

The  lure  of  place  he  well  could  scorn 
Who  knew  a  mightier  joy  and  fate  — 

The  passion  of  the  hope  forlorn, 
The  luxury  of  being  great, 

The  deep  content  of  souls  serene 
Who  gain  or  lose  with  equal  mien; 
Defeat  his  spirit  not  subdued 
Nor  victory  marred  his  noble  mood. 

GEORGE  MACDONALD 

AH,  loving,  exquisite,  enraptured  soul, 

Who  wert  to  me  a  father  and  a  friend; 

Who  imaged  and  brought  near,  all  humanly, 

The  sweetness  and  the  majesty  of  him 

Who  in  Judea  melted  human  hearts, 

And  won  the  world  by  loveliness  and  love; 

Dear  spirit,  who  to  the  Infinite  Purity 

Past,  without  change,  and  humbly  unabashed  — 


394  THE   FIRE  DIVINE 

If  farewell  we  must  say,  it  is  that  thou 

So  far  beyond,  above,  we, —  alien  so 

From  grace  like  thine, —  may  hardly  follow  close 

Thy  shining  feet  in  fields  of  endless  light 

When  to  the  goal  of  souls  reborn  we  pass. 

Yet  couldst  thou  not  rest  happy  in  that  world 
Thou  saw'st  with  eyes  anointed,  near  that  Christ 
Who  was  to  thee  a  human  brother  and  friend, 
If  we,  thy  brothers,  with  thee  came  not  nigh. 

If  ever  saint  with  the  Eternal  strove, 
Then  wouldst  thou,  wilt  thou,  strive  and  supplicate 
That  not  one  soul  be  lost  or  suffer  ill, 
If  so  may  be,  but  win  to  the  Infinite  Love 
That  was  the  faith,  strength,  life  of  all  thy  days. 

Our  heaTts  are  heavy;  O,  yet  give  we  thanks, 
As  thou  didst  give  when  died  one  dear  to  thee, 
Thanks  that  thou  livedst  —  that  we  knew  and  loved, 
Even  in  the  flesh,  one  who  was  one  with  God. 

JOSEPHINE  SHAW  LOWELL 

IT  was  but  yesterday  she  walked  these  streets, 
Making  them  holier.   How  many  years, 
With  all  her  widowed  love,  immeasurably 
She  ministered  unto  the  abused  and  stricken, 
And  all  the  oppressed  and  suffering  of  mankind; 
Herself  forgetting,  but  never  those  in  need; 
Her  whole,  sweet  soul  lost  in  her  loving  work ; 
Pondering  the  endless  problem  of  the  poor. 

In  ceaseless  labor,  swift,  unhurriedly, 
She  sped  upon  her  tireless  ministries, 
Climbing  the  stairs  of  poverty  and  wrong, 


JOSEPHINE   SHAW   LOWELL  395 

Endeavoring  the  help  that  shall  not  hurt, 
Seeking  to  build  in  every  human  heart 
A  temple  of  justice  —  that  no  brother's  burden 
Should  heavier  prove  through  human  selfishness. 

In  memory  I  see  that  brooding  face 
That  now  seemed  dreaming  of  the  heroic  past 
When  those  most  dear  to  her  laid  loyal  lives 
On  the  high  altar  of  freedom;  and  again 
That  thinking,  inward-lighted  countenance 
Drooped,  saddened  by  the  pain  of  humankind, 
Tho'  resolute  to  help  where  help  might  be, 
And  with  undying  faith  illuminate. 

She  was  our  woman  of  sorrows,  whose  pure  heart 
Was  pierced  by  many  woes;  and  yet  long  since 
Her  soul  of  sympathy  entered  the  peace 
And  calm  eternal  of  the  eternal  mind ; 
Inheritor  of  noble  lives,  she  held, 
Even  to  the  end,  a  spirit  of  cheerfulness, 
And  knowledge  keen  of  the  deep  joy  of  being 
By  pain  all  unsubdued.   Sister  and  saint, 
Who  to  life's  darkened  passageways  brought  light, 
Who  taught  the  dignity  of  human  service, 
Who  made  the  city  noble  by  her  life, 
And  sanctified  the  very  stones  her  feet 
Prest  in  their  sacred  journeys! 

Most  High  God! 

This  city  of  mammon,  this  wide,  seething  pit 
Of  avarice  and  lust,  hath  known  Thy  saints, 
And  yet  shall  know.   For  faith  than  sin  is  mightier, 
And  by  this  faith  we  live  —  that  in  Thy  time, 
In  Thine  own  time,  the  good  shall  crush  the  ill; 
The  brute  within  the  human  shall  die  down; 


396  THE  FIRE  DIVINE 

And  love  and  justice  reign,  where  hate  prevents  - 
That  love  which  in  pure  hearts  reveals  Thine  own 
And  lights  the  world  to  righteousness  and  truth. 

"ONE  ROSE  OF  SONG" 
(MARY  PUTNAM  JACOBI) 

ONE  rose  of  song 
For  one  sweet  deed 
On  her  grave  I  fling. 
But,  O,  how  can  I  sing 
When  she  takes  no  heed! 

My  rose  of  song 
For  a  fragrant  deed, 
Tho'  she  takes  no  heed, 
Still  must  I  bring. 

Tho'  she  needs  no  praise, 
Tho'  she  hears  not  my  song 
On  her  journey  long 
In  the  new,  strange  ways  — 
O  still  must  I  sing, 
My  rose  I  must  fling, 
Just  to  ease  my  heart 
Of  the  sorrow  and  smart. 

In  a  far-off  land 

She  stretched  forth  her  hand 

To  me  and  to  mine. 

And  now,  for  a  sign, 

This  song  I  sing 

And  this  rose  I  bring. 

Tho'  she  take  no  heed 
On  her  journey  long, 


LOST   LEADERS  397 

Yet  a  soul  shall  hear, 
Some  soul  shall  take  heed, 
And  the  rose  and  the  deed, 
They  shall  sow  their  seed. 


JOHN  MALONE 

THIS  actor  in  great  Shakespeare's  shadow  moved; 
He  thought  his  thoughts,  he  lived  in  Shakespeare's  age. 
His  were  the  tenets  of  that  mighty  stage : 
Therefore  we  mourn;  therefore  was  he  beloved. 

"LOST  LEADERS'* 


"Losx  leaders"  —  no,  they  are  not  lost 
Like  shrunken  leaves  the  wild  wind  tost. 
Them  only  shall'  we  mourn  who  failed ; 
When  came  the  fight  —  who  faltered,  quailed. 


Raged  not  through  blood  and  battle  grime 
These  heroes  of  our  land  and  time; 
The  foes  they  fought,  with  dauntless  deed, 
Were  shameless  vice  and  maddened  greed. 

in 

Not  lost,  not  lost  the  noble  dead  — 
By  them  our  doubting  feet  are  led. 
Stars  of  our  dark,  sun  of  our  day, 
They  guide,  they  light  the  climbing  way. 

IV 

And  if,  in  their  celestial  flight, 

The  mist  hath  hid  those  forms  from  sight, 


398  THE  FIRE  DIVINE 

Still,  down  the  stormy  path,  we  hear 
Their  hero-voices  ringing  clear. 


Who  for  their  fellows  live  and  die, 
They  the  immortals  are.   O  sigh 
Not  for  their  loss,  but  rather  praise 
The  God  that  gave  them  to  our  days. 

ON  A  CERTAIN  "AGNOSTIC" 

AGNOSTIC!  Ah,  what  idle  name  for  him 

Who  knew  —  not  the  untruths  of  fables  old, 

Cherished  in  fear,  or  arrant  ignorance; 

Who  knew  —  not  the  shrewd  structures  of  keen  minds 

Intent  on  their  own  shrewdness;  losing  quite 

The  inner  truth  in  outward  scaffoldings, 

Cunning  appearances,  and  schemes  involved; 

But  who  knew  well  the  central  verity : 

That  honest  thought  followed,  without  dismay, 

Unto  the  bitter  and  accepted  end, 

Is  the  one  way  to  wisdom  in  this  world; 

Who  knew  not  creeds,  but  could  not  help  but  follow 

The  feet  of  him  who  loved  his  fellow-men; 

Who  knew  that  human  service  is  true  life; 

Who  knew  deep  friendship,  lived  this  knowledge  out, 

As  few  called  "  friends"  have  ever  dared  to  live; 

And  who  knew  well  the  sacred  truth  of  love. 

Ah,  call  him  not  unknowing,  for  he  knew 

The  truth  of  truth  —  the  gods  can  know  no  more. 

"A  WEARY  WASTE  WITHOUT  HER" 

"A  WEARY  waste  without  her?"   Ah,  but  think! 

You  who  were  blest  with  the  most  sweet,  most  near 


WHERE    SPRING   BEGAN  399 

Knowledge  of  that  high  nature;  who  could  drink 
At  her  fresh  spirit's  fountain,  year  by  year  — 

What  were  the  past  without  her?   And  her  dear 
Image  and  memory  —  did  they,  too,  sink 
Into  the  abyss?  —  Herself  was  yours,  and  here 
Still  lives  remembrance;  a  bright,  golden  link 

'Twixt  this,  the  visible  world,  and  the  unknown 
Toward  which  we  journey  —  where  she  now  doth  live, 
Close  to  the  Eternal  One.   Make  thou  no  moan; 

What  else  may  pass,  this  twofold  gift  endures; 

Give  thanks,  and  mourn  not,  then.  —  But,  O,  forgive! 
How  can  I  chide  who  mix  my  tears  with  yours? 

THE  POET'S   SLEEP 

In  spite  of  it  all  I  am  going  to  sleep.   Put  out  the  lights. 

THOMAS   BAILEY   ALDRICH. 

EVER  when  slept  the  poet  his  dreams  were  music, 
And  in  sweet  song  lived  the  dear  dream  once  more. 
So  when  from  sleep  and  dreams  again  he  wakes, — 
Out  from  the  world  of  symbols  passing  forth 
Into  that  spirit-world  where  all  is  real, — 
What  memoried  music,  new  and  exquisite, 
Shall  strike  on  ears  celestial  —  where  he  walks 
Reverent  among  the  immortal  melodists! 

WHERE  SPRING  BEGAN 

THE  days  were  cold,  and  clouded.   On  a  day 

Before  the  seasonable  warmth  and  sun 

The  poet  died.   We  bore  him  to  the  tomb 

And,  under  wreaths  and  flowers,  we  laid  him  down. 

Then  came  a  burst  of  sunshine.   Bright  it  poured 

On  the  banked  blossoms  and  the  leafless  trees. 

There,  at  the  poet's  grave,  the  spring  began. 


400  THE  FIRE  DIVINE 

AVARICE 

THEY  said,  "God  made  him,"  ah,  the  clean,  great  God! 

Perhaps!  Even  as  He  made  the  loathed  beast 

Whose  use  is  to  take  offal  for  his  feast; 

As  He  made  viper  and  vermin  or,  at  a  nod, 
Made  hell,  to  do  some  necessary  part 

In  His  wide-stretched,  inscrutable  universe. 

Yes,  haply  God  imagined  him  for  a  curse, 

A  scourge,  a  vengeance;  with  slow,  patient  art 
Him  did  He  fashion  cunningly ;  saying :  "  This 

My  sign  and  warning,  to  time's  distant  end, 

That  all  a  loveless  life  is  may  be  known, 
And  desolate  horror  of  pure  avarice; 

The  world  is  his,  —  a  world  without  a  friend,  — 

Without  one  friend  an  honest  man  would  own." 

PITY  THE  BLIND 


" PITY  the  blind!"   Yes,  pity  those 
Whom  day  and  night  inclose 
In  equal  dark;  to  whom  the  sun's  keen  flame 
And  pitchy  night-time  are  the  same. 

n 

But  pity  most  the  blind 

Who  cannot  see 
That  to  be  kind 

Is  life's  felicity. 

PROOF  OF  SERVICE 

THOU  who  wouldst  serve  thy  country  and  thy  kind, 
Winning  the  praise  of  honorable  men 


BLAME  4OI 

And  love  of  many  hearts  —  know  the  true  proof 
Of  faithfulness  lies  not  therein.   That  dwells 
In  the  lone  consciousness  of  duty  done, 
And  in  the  scorn  and  contumely  of  souls 
Self-soiled  with  sin:  the  necessary  hate 
Of  perjured  and  contaminated  spirits 
For  that  whose  mere  existence  brings  reproach, 
Shame,  and  despair  for  something  lost  forever. 
When  thou  hast  won  the  hatred  of  the  vile, 
Then  know  thou  hast  served  well  thy  fellow-men. 

CONQUERED 

IN  thine  anger  it  was  said: 
"Would  that  mine  enemy  were  dead." 

Or,  if  thou  saidest  naught, 

That  was  thy  thought. 

Now  thou  cryest,  night  and  day: 
"  Mine  enemy  hath  conquered  in  our  fight, 

In  that  he  fled  away 

Into  the  darkness  and  the  night, 

Ere  I  to  justice  wakened  and  the  right. 

Now  this  through  all  the  anguished  hours  I  say, 

As  with  my  soul  my  soul  doth  strive: 

Would  God  mine  enemy  were  alive!" 

BLAME 

(A    MEMORY    OF    EISLEBEN,    THE    PLACE    OF    LUTHER'S 
BIRTH   AND   DEATH) 

IN  a  far,  lonely  land  at  last  I  came 
Unto  a  town  made  great  by  one  great  fame. 
Born  here,  here  died  the  noblest  of  his  time, 
Whose  memory  makes  his  century  sublime. 


402  THE    FIRE    DIVINE 

But,  O  my  God!  I  was  not  happy  there, 
For  down  below,  in  dark  and  caverned  air, 
Outstretched  and  cramped,  the  pallid  miners  lay. 
Their  shortened  lives,  their  absence  from  the  day, 
Burdened  my  spirit  with  a  sense  of  blame. 
Now  you,  and  you —  I  see  you  flush  with  shame. 

THE   WHISPERERS 

(NEW  YORK,  1905) 

IN  the  House  of  State  at  Albany, —  in  shadowy  cor 
ridors  and  corners, —  the  whisperers  whispered  together. 

In  sumptuous  palaces  in  the  great  city  men  talked 
intently,  with  mouth  to  ear. 

Year  in  and  year  out  they  whispered,  and  talked,  and 
no  one  heard  save  those  who  listened  close. 

Now  in  the  Hall  of  the  City  the  whisperers  again  are 
whispering,  the  talkers  are  talking. 

They  who  once  conversed  so  quietly,  secretly,  with 
shrugs  and  winks  and  ringer  laid  beside  nose  —  what 
has  happened  to  their  throats? 

For  speak  they  never  so  low,  their  voices  are  as  the 
voices  of  trumpets;  whisper  they  never  so  close,  their 
words  are  like  alarm  bells  rung  in  the  night. 

Every  whisper  is  a  shout,  and  the  noise  of  their  speech 
goes  forth  like  thunders. 

They  cry  as  from  the  housetops  —  their  voices  resound 
up  and  down  the  streets;  they  echo  from  village  to  village 
and  from  city  to  city. 

Over  prairies  and  mountains  and  across  the  salt  sea 
their  whispers  go  hissing  and  shouting. 

They  say  the  thing  they  would  not  say,  and  quickly 
the  shameful  thing  clamors  back  and  forth  over  the  round 
world ; 


BEFORE   THE  GRAND   JURY  403 

And  when  they  would  fain  cease  their  saying,  they  may 
not,  for  a  clear-voiced  Questioner  is  as  the  finger  of  fate 
and  the  crack  of  doom. 

What  they  would  hide  they  reveal,  what  they  would 
cover  they  make  plain; 

What  they  feared  to  speak  aloud  to  one  another,  un 
willing  they  publish  to  all  mankind; 

And  the  people  listen  with  bowed  heads,  wondering 
and  in  grief; 

And  wise  men,  and  they  who  love  their  country,  turn 
pale  and  ask:  "What  new  shame  will  come  upon  us?" 

And  again  they  ask,  "Are  these  they  in  whose  keep 
are  the  substance  and  hope  of  the  widow  and  the  father 
less?" 

And  the  poor  man,  plodding  home  with  his  scant  earn 
ings  from  his  hard  week's  work,  hears  the  voices,  with 
bitterness  in  his  soul. 

And  thieves,  lurking  in  dark  places  and  furtively  seiz 
ing  that  which  is  not  their  own;  and  the  petty  and  cow 
ardly  briber,  and  he  who  is  bribed,  nudge  one  another; 

And  the  anarch  and  the  thrower  of  bombs  clap  hands 
together,  and  cry  out:  "Behold  these  our  allies!" 

BEFORE   THE    GRAND    JURY 

A  WOMAN,  who  has  been  a  man's  desire, 

Now  cast  aside  like  ashes  from  a  fire, 

With  startled  breath,  confessing  all  her  shame, 

Here, —  looking  in  the  faces  of  strange  men, 

Who  probe  remorselessly  their  "where"  and  "when,"  — 

Falters  her  dreadful  story,  that  the  blame 

May  strike  on  the  betrayer.    In  that  glare 

Plead  piteous  answers  hardly  might  she  dare 

Murmur,  at  midnight,  on  a  mother's  breast. 


404  THE    FIRE    DIVINE 

Was  ever  secret  misery  confest 
To  such  grim  audience! 

O  hapless  fate 
For  this  sweet  girl,  and  for  her  guiltier  mate. 

Powers  of  the  world,  and  O,  ye  Powers  Unseen, 
Be  stern,  yet  be  ye  kind!    Let  be  the  ends 
Of  justice  served;  but  hold  a  shield  between 
Souls  and  the  smiting  sword.    O,  make  amends 
In  the  oncoming  years,  or  some  far  age. 
They  are  but  caught  in  Nature's  deathless  rage; 
The  fire  that  in  their  bodies  burned  doth  hold 
The  sun  in  heaven ;  part  is  it  of  the  force 
That  keeps  the  stars  each  on  its  mystic  course, 
While  the  all-changing  universe  grows  never  old. 

"IN   THE    CITIES" 

I 

IN  the  cities  no  longer  the  blaring  of  trumpets  that  sum 
mon  to  battle, 

From  splendid  towers  the  banners  flash  not  forth  in  the 
breeze, 

No  longer  the  ringing  of  war-bells,  and  the  clattering 
sound  of  horsemen, 

The  clangor  of  sword  on  shield,  nor  the  cries  of  the  feudal 
fighters 

Hurrying  into  the  streets  to  strike  with  bullet  and  steel ; 

Clamoring,  battering  down;  assailing  high  walls  and 
towers; 

Rushing  maddened,  furious,  to  the  killing   of  fellow- 
men. 

n 

Yet  still  a  clangor  of  bells  and  a  loud,  shrill  whistling 
and  shouting, 


IN  THE   CITIES  405 

But  the  sharp,  quick  sounds  that  startle  proclaim  not 
anger  but  mercy. 

For  now,  like  winds  and  thunders,  flash  by  the  glittering 
engines, 

And  the  wagons,  with  ladders  and  axes,  laden  with  well- 
trained  men 

Eager  to  quench  the  flame,  to  scale  the  dangerous  battle 
ments; 

Eager  to  risk  their  lives  in  the  hissing  blaze  and  the  smoke 

That  blinds,  and  that  grips  the  throat  like  the  throttling 
hand  of  murder. 

in 

On  come  the  engines  and  wagons,  and  the  Chief  in  his 

hooting  chariot, 
And  a  boy,  who  hears  them  careering,  rushes  out  to  the 

crossing  of  ways, 
And,  swinging  his  arms  and  shouting,  clears  a  path  for 

the  shrieking  engine, 
That  rushes  like  winds  and  thunders  down  a  vale  of  death 

and  destruction  — 
And  every  man,  at  his  post,  on  the  winds  of  the  human 

tempest, 
Mad  for  the  saving  of  lives  of  men  and  of  women  and 

children  — 

To  creep  to  the  edge  of  death,  to  swing  in  dizzying  chasms, 
To  save  the  children  of  strangers,  forgetting  their  own 

in  their  madness; 
And  then  if  a  comrade  fall,  how  wild  each  man  to  the 

rescue, 

Plunging  into  the  pit,  poisoned,  choked,  unconscious; 
Revived,  they  struggle  back  'gainst  their  officers'  yelled 

commandings  — 
Mad,  mad,  mad,  for  the  saving  of  human  life. 


406  THE    FIRE   DIVINE 

IV 

And  now,  in  the  days  of  peace,  no  squadron  charging  by, 
But  hark!  down  the  street  a  sharp  reiterant  stroke  and 

clamor, 

A  rhythmic  beating  of  hoofs,  a  galloping  louder,  closer, 
And  again  a  youth  leaps  quick  to  the  crossing  of  crowded 

ways, 
And  he  swings  his  arms  and  shouts,  and  clears,  through 

the  human  currents, 
A  path  for  the  ringing  ambulance,  hurrying,  hurrying, 

hurrying 
To  a  place  where  a  child  has  fallen,  is  wounded  nigh 

unto  death, 
That  the  child  may  be  tenderly  lifted  and  skillfully  nursed 

and  tended  — 
Engine   and  hurrying  ambulance   screaming,    ringing, 

impatient, 

Filling  the  frightened  streets  with  echoes  of  old-time  wars, 
Laden  with  men  of  might,  skilled  and  fierce  and  deter 
mined — 

Not  as  of  old  to  maim,  to  harry  and  scatter  destruction ; 
Not  to  take  life,  but  to  save  it;  not  to  kill,  but  to  rescue 

the  perishing. 

A   TRAGEDY    OF   TO-DAY 
(NEW  YORK,  1905) 


IN  a  little  theater,  in  the  Jewry  of  the  New  World,  I 
sat  among  the  sad-eyed  exiles; 

Narrow  was  the  stage  and  meagerly  appointed,  and 
the  players  gave  themselves  up  utterly  to  their  art; 

And,  before  our  eyes,  were  enacted  scenes  of  a  play 
that  scarcely  seemed  a  play. 


A  TRAGEDY   OF   TO-DAY  407 

The  place  was  a  city  in  a  wide,  unhappy  land; 

Even  in  that  empire  which  drifts  to-day  like  a  great 
ship  toward  a  black  and  unknown  coast; 

While  men,  with  blanched  faces,  cry  out:  "Unless 
the  tempest  abates  quickly,  behold  the  mightiest  wreck 
on  all  the  shores  of  time!" 

And  the  time  of  the  drama  was  our  own  time ;  and  the 
coming  and  the  going;  and  the  people  themselves  were 
of  our  own  day  and  generation; 

The  people,  with  strange  beards,  and  look  of  the  im 
memorial  Orient;  like  those  men  and  women  who,  alien 
and  melancholy,  plod  the  New- World  streets; 

Like  those  who,  in  slow  and  pitiful  procession,  on  a 
fixed  day  of  mourning,  with  dirges  and  wailings,  poured 
innumerous  into  the  city's  open  places; 

And,  as  the  play  went  on,  at  times  the  very  speech  of 
the  actors,  in  hot  debate,  crackled  and  sputtered  like  the 
fuse  of  a  Russian  bomb. 

And  there  an  old  man,  the  preacher  of  a  hunted  race 
and  a  despised  religion,  all  alone  called  to  his  people  to 
follow  him,  and  their  God,  the  God  of  Israel. 

Passionately  he  proclaimed  the  faith  of  the  fathers 
and  the  saving  word  and  protecting  arm  of  the  Almighty ; 

He,  the  voice  and  the  prophet  of  the  Lord  High  God, 
called  aloud  to  them  who  strayed:  — 

"  Come  ye  back  to  your  God,  and  to  His  Everlasting 
Word. 

"Ye  young  men  who  have  forgotten  Him,  the  Un- 
forgetting,  and  ye  old  men  mumbling  your  prayers;  ye 
cowards!  leaving  the  holy  shrine  unprotected"; 

And  the  young  men  answered  and  called  the  old  man 
the  name  of  them  who  are  dead  and  have  passed  away; 

And  the  old  men,  unheeding,  swayed  to  and  fro,  mum 
bling  their  ancient  psalms  and  ineffectual  supplications. 

Then,  while  the  noise  of  the  beastly  rabble  swelled 


408  THE    FIRE  DIVINE 

louder  and  nearer  —  then  did  the  preacher  turn  once 
more  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  lifting  up  his  voice  in  praise 
and  prayer,  and  faith  unquenchable; 

Crying  to  God  with  a  loud  voice  and  saying:  —  "Lead 
me,  Thou  Jehovah!  in  the  right  way, 

"  For  now  hath  come  the  great  day  of  the  Lord ;  now, 
Lord,  save  Thy  people  and  bless  Thy  heritage, 

"Thou  who  wert,  and  art,  and  ever  shalt  be!  Show 
now  Thy  Almightiness,  send  Thy  miracle  as  lightning 
from  on  high." 

Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  curses  and  shrieks  and 
the  wailing  lamentations;  and  men  and  women  fled, 
wounded,  before  the  infamous  and  infuriate  avengers; 

Then  the  crash  of  guns  and  the  terror  of  carnage  and 
rapine  unspeakable; 

And,  in  the  midst,  the  voice  of  an  old  man  crying  to 
heaven,  and  falling  smitten  and  dead  before  the  shrine 
of  the  God  of  Israel. 

And,  listening,  I  heard  not  only  the  sounds  of  the  mimic 
drama  —  but,  louder  and  more  dreadful,  the  panting  of 
miserable  women  who  welcomed  death,  the  deliverer; 

And  from  Kishineff  and  Odessa  I  heard,  once  more 
crying  to  heaven,  the  outpoured  blood  of  the  Jew. 


And  still  as  I  listened  and  dreamed,  the  crimson  flood 
widened  to  a  great  and  lustrous  pool, 

And  looking  therein  I  saw  reflected  the  faces  of  many 
known  well  to  my  heart  and  to  the  hearts  of  all  the  world, 

For  there  were  the  features  of  mighty  warriors  and 
makers  of  laws  and  leaders  of  men ;  of  poets  inspired  and 
of  painters  and  musicians;  and  of  famed  philosophers, 
and  of  men  and  women  who  loved,  and  labored  for,  their 
kind; 


THE   OLD   HOUSE  409 

And  the  faces  of  preachers  and  prophets;  of  those 
who  fervently  cursed  the  unrighteous,  and  who  to  a  world 
in  darkness  brought  light  everlasting; 

And  chief  of  all  I  saw  in  that  crimson  mirror  the  face 
of  him  whose  spirit  was  bowed  beneath  the  agonies  of 
all  mankind. 

THE    OLD    HOUSE 


HOME  of  my  forebears,  home  of  my  dreaming  childhood, 
House  that  I  love  with  a  love  instinctive,  changeless, 
Ancestral,  mystical,  passionate,  tender,  sorrowful; 
Old  house  where  I  was  born  and  my  mother  before  me  — 
Strangely  the  old  house  speaks  to  its  child  returning, 
Speaks  with  a  tone  affectionate,  intimate,  sweet, 
Made,  mysterious,  out  of  the  voices  of  many  — 
Out  of  the  accents  of  them,  the  loving,  the  loyal, 
That  still  in  memory  soothe  and  murmur  and  call; 
Voices  that  greeted  my  life  and  guided  the  journey, 
Human  voices,  long  hushed,  and  the  subtler  speech 
That  steals  from  the  dumb,  dead  walls,  and  whispers  and 

thrills, 

From  the  shadowy  chimney-places,  and  haunted  nooks; 
These  centuried  walls,  this  roof,  and  the  buoyant  branches 
Of  large-leaved,  mottled  buttonwoods,  towering  mightily, 
And  pines  that  my  father  planted,  now  loftily  dying  — 
These  are  the  vibrant  notes  of  the  one  deep  chord 
That  sings  in  my  heart,  here  by  the  ancient  hearthstone. 


Five  are  the  generations  this  place  have  humaned, 
Leaving  their  impress,  I  think,  on  the  breathed  air  — 
For  full  is  the  house  of  relics  of  lives  departed : 


410  THE    FIRE   DIVINE 

Carvings  strange  that  some  wanderer  here  enharbored, 
Bringing  the  Orient's  touch  to  the  wondering  child; 
And  Arctic  gatherings;  hints  of  the  torrid  zone; 
And  quaint  embroideries  worked  by  hands  ancestral, 
Deft  for  the  spinning  of  flax  on  these  silent  wheels; 
Books  of  a  day  when  each  was  a  treasure,  a  star  — 
And  chief  of  them  all,  to  the  trembling  heart  of  a  boy, 
The  verse  of  him,  the  singer  of  song  sonorous, 
Whose  voice  was  the  voice  of  trumpets  and  many  waters, 
Whose  soul  went  forth  with  angels  and  archangels, 
Nor  stood  dismayed  before  the  Eternal  presence. 

Pictures  of  faces  whose  features  I  see  in  my  own  — 
That  I  see  re-imaged  by  laws  unfathomed,  fateful, 
In  my  own  children's  pleading,  innocent  faces; 
Volumes  of  lores  outgrown,  or  a  living  art; 
Bibles  and  books  of  devotion,  where  names  are  enrolled 
In  letters  that  fade  like  the  image  of  souls  long  dead. 
Not  without  tears  may  I  ponder  the  yellowing  leaves 
Where    record    was    made    of    secretest    dreams    and 

prayers — 

Records  of  love  accomplished,  or  unfulfilled. 
Were  the  aged  faces  I  knew,  the  timorous  maidens 
Who,  wistful,  their  innocent  passions  here  hinted,  or  hid? 
This  wife  new-married,  so  young,  so  sweet,  so  appealing, 
Was  this  the  angelical  mother,  she  of  great  sorrows, 
Loving  and  dreaming  in  age,  as  in  palpitant  girlhood? 
This  lock,  among  many  a  tress  so  lovingly  treasured  — 
Ah,  this  is  my  own,  by  hands  that  I  knew  so  well, 
Cut  from  a  golden  head  that  long  has  been  silvered. 

in 

The  old  house  speaks,  and  low,  in  the  glimmering  twilight, 
It  murmurs  of  days  that  are  gone,  and  spirits  lamented; 
A  girlish  face  with  a  smile  all  radiant,  loving  — 


THE    OLD   HOUSE  411 

Sweet  cousin  mine !  where,  in  the  land  of  shadows, 
Doth  that  smile  illume,  that  voice  bring  joy  as  of  old? 
This  quaint  and  closeted  chamber,  ah,  here  was  unfolded 
The  love  of  a  child  for  a  child,  through  years  and 

through  sorrows 

Remembered  and  cherished  by  each, —  the  love  of  the  old 
For  the  old,  now,  —  the  love  of  the  old  for  lost  youth 
And  comrades  long  gone,  and  loved  and  remembered 

together. 
And  she  with  the  heart  of  a  queen,  and  the  soul  of  a 

martyr; 

In  young  days  serene,  and  blithe  and  undaunted  in  age, 
Who  loved  the  old  house,  even  as  I, —  her  birthplace, 

her  refuge, — 

She  in  a  vision  comes  near;  and  quick  I  remember 
One  night  of  all  nights,  when  a  messenger  stood  in  the 

doorway  — 

Silent  he  stood,  and  we  knew  the  message  unspoken ! 
O  night  of  nights,  when  a  wife  turned  sudden  a  widow, 
And  a  child,  'neath  the  solacing  stars,  passed  swift  into 

manhood. 

IV 

But  of  childhood  the  old  house  whispers  and  murmurs 

to-night, 

Of  the  twilight  hour  in  the  arms  of  her  the  beloved 
And  loving  sister  of  her  who  gave  me  my  being  — 
Who  like  a  second  mother  encompassed  my  childhood 
With  song  and  with  story,  with  gleams  of  fairy  and  hero, 
Chanting  in  twilight  gray  the  ancient  ballads, 
Or  crooning,  as  if  to  herself,  the  love-songs  of  girlhood; 
Or,  again,  she  fashioned  the  tales  of  her  own  young  days: 
Of  the  country  balls,  in  the  time  when  winter  was  winter, 
And  the  snows  were  piled  —  high  as  the  head  of  a  man, 
And  the  ringing  sleighs  sped  over  the  fields  and  the  fences 


412  THE   FIRE   DIVINE 

To  the  revels  and  routs  in  the  taverns  of  long  ago; 
When  the  dancing  would  last  till  dawn,  and  the  dancers 

flew 

From  village  to  village,  and  tavern  to  tavern,  all  night; 
Turning  the  snow-lit  dark  to  rollicking  day. 
O  days  and  nights  of  a  far  and  happy  world ! 


Of  childhood  the  old  house  whispers,  of  wintry  sports 
With  sled  and  skate  on  the  ponds  long  filled  and  forgotten ; 
Wild  joys  of  meadow,  and  woods,  and  waters;  of  branches 
Laden  with  black-heart  cherries,  where  boys  and  birds 
Alternate  shared  the  wealth  of  the  aery  feast. 
Of  boyhood  the  old  house  whispers,  of  moonlit  voyages 
On  the  wooded  stream,  that  wound  in  silent  reaches, 
Far  through  the  mystic  land  of  awakening  life. 

VI 

And  now,  in  the  twilight  hour,  dear,  living  voices, 
The  voices  of  children  I  hear,  they  come  to  my  call; 
And  I  tell  of  the  days  that  are  gone,  and  they  hark  with 

delight  — 

As  I,  in  my  youth,  heard  the  tales  of  the  ancient  days; 
Then  good-night,  and  to  bed!   But  the  teller  of  ancient 

tales 

Stays  by  the  dying  fire  and  listens,  again, 
To  the  thronging  voices  that  murmur  to  him  alone. 

"THERE'S    NO   PLACE   LIKE  THE   OLD 
PLACE!" 


BACK  to  the  old  place  I've  come  home  again, 
Back  at  last  from  the  big  town, 


NO   PLACE   LIKE    THE    OLD    PLACE        413 

After  so  many  hard  and  struggling  years; 

Back  to  the  old  home,  the  old  home  in  the  mountains, 

In  the  valley  of  childhood; 

And  I  say  to  myself,  again  and  again  I  say: 

There's  no  place  like  the  old  place! 

u 

Here  once  more  I  wander,  here,  in  the  valley  of  brooks, 
I  wander  a  stranger  —  where  every  spring  and  tree  and 

rock  is  familiar. 
The  little  brooks  tinkle  down,  with  the  old  music,  through 

the  pine-darkened  gorges; 
The  brooks  that  sometimes  run  dry,  or  hide  under  the 

smooth  stones; 
In  the  time  of  fullness  leaping  from  ledge  to  ledge  down 

to  the  big  brook  that  never  dries; 
Where  the  trout  dartle  and  the  pools  are  shadowy  and 

cool 

And  good  to  the  hot  body  of  a  boy. 
Lovely,  with  an  intimate  loveliness,  is  the  valley, 
And  again  and  again  I  chant  to  myself: 
O,  there's  no  place  like  the  old  place! 

in 

There 's  no  place  like  the  old  place ! 

Strangely  nearer  seem  the  walls  of  the  valley, 

Tho'  far  and  spacious  as  ever  the  mysterious  sunset. 

Never  before  have  I  felt  so  intensely  the  beauty  of  it  all  — 

How  well-shaped  the  double  valley; 

The  upper  valley  like  a  great,  green  bowl, 

And  the  lower  valley  opening  out  toward  the  sunset  like  a 

trumpet; 
The  mountains  embowered  with  evergreens,  and  maples, 

and  chestnuts  — 


414  THE   FIRE   DIVINE 

Or  lying  naked  in  the  sun, 
Scraped  bare  by  the  ancient  glacier, 
Scoured  by  rains  and  scarred  by  lightnings, 
And  with  a  look  as  if  the  salt  sea  had  beaten  and  bitten 
there  for  a  thousand  years. 

IV 

Stately  and  gracious  with   elms   and  willows   are    the 

smooth  and  grassy  meadows 

Leveled  for  human  use  by  the  lakes  of  untold  ages, 
Then  covered  with  forests,  that  the  pioneers  uprooted  — 
Rich  now  and  full  of  peace;  bringing  back  the  well-loved 

images  of  the  Bible; 

Meadows  where  first  I  heard  the  swift  song  of  the  bobo 
link, 
Throbbing  and  ringing  madly,  back  and  forth  in  the 

meadow  air, 

And  whence,  in  full  summer,  after  a  long,  hot  day 
The  boy  that  was  I  came  back  to  the  home  barn 
Royally  charioted  on  the  high-piled,  sweet-scented  hay. 
Ah,  there's  no  place  like  the  old  place! 


There,  under  the  hill,  is  the  homestead; 

How  large  the  maples  have  grown  that  the  old  folks 

planted ! 
Sweet  was  the  sap  in  the  spring  and  the  shade  in  the 

summer. 

I  never  knew  such  water  as  from  the  spring  at  our  house, 
Running  cold  as  ice  in  the  kitchen  and  out  in  the  barn. 
And  the  little  window  up  there  was  mine ! 
I  tell  you  I  slept  well,  and  rose  early  in  those  days, 
Tho'  sometimes  at  night  after  a  long  rain,  or  when  the 

ice  was  melting  in  Hayes's  pond, 


NO   PLACE   LIKE   THE   OLD   PLACE        415 

I  could  scarce  sleep  for  the  brook  roaring  like  Niagara, 
As   it  leapt    the    mill-dams   and -spread  out   over   the 

meadows, 
Scurrying  great  logs  along,  and  every  footbridge  in  the 

valley. 

But  most  times  it  was  quiet  enough  at  the  old  home  — 
The  dear  old  place,  the  old  place  that's  the  best  place! 

VI 

O,  there's  no  place  like  the  old  place,  and  no  time  like 

the  old  time! 
The  chores  were  rough,  but  the  keener  the  zest  for  the 

play! 

For  chestnuting  in  the  frosty  autumn, 
For  the  tug  of  the  bass  at  Goose  pond  and  the  lake  at 

Monterey, 

And  the  day  of  fun  at  the  county  fair ; 
For  the  skim  on  the  frozen  meadow  on  winter  nights, 
Or  the  watch  at  the  pickerel  flags  in  the  ice-holes  on  the 

white  spread  of  the  mountain  lakes, 
Or  the  flying  plunge  of  the  bob-sled  down  Papermill 

hill; 
The  chase  for  the  woodchuck,  and  the  far-circling  fox, 

and  the  all-night  tramp  for  the  treed  'coon ; 
For  a  hay-ride  with  a  bevy  of  girls  and  a  moonlight  drive 

with  one; 

For  wanderings  through  the  woods  and  over  the  hills, 
When  the  billowing  mountain-laurel  from  afar  off 
Looked  like  flocks  of  sheep  on  the  high  terraces  of  the 

old  Sweet  farm; 
When  the  hiding  arbutus  or  gossamer  clematis  faintly 

scented  the  clean  air; 
When  came  the  child's  first  thrill  at  the  boom  of  the 

startled  partridge, 


416  THE   FIRE   DIVINE 

And  when  first  the  adventurer  heard  a  whole,  great 

blossoming  linden 
Humming,  with  honey-gathering  bees,  like  the  pluckt 

string  of  a  violin. 

vn 

O,  there's  no  place  like  the  old  place! 

Mightier  mountains  there  are,  sky-piercing  and  snow- 
covered  all  the  year  round, 

But  the  lion-like  curve  of  Cobble,  clear-cut  against  the 
southern  heavens, 

On  still,  cold  nights  heaves  close  to  the  thick  stars; 

And  the  white  ways  of  the  Galaxy  I  have  seen  start  from 
the  lion's  head 

And  sweep  over  to  the  long  mountain,  as  if  all  the  light 
and  glory  were  for  the  valley  only. 

Day  and  night,  in  sunlight  and  starlight,  and  in  the  light 
of  the  moon, 

Beautiful,  beautiful  is  the  valley  of  brooks. 

Travelers  have  said  that  in  the  whole  earth  there  is  none 
more  beautiful. 

Why  have  I  stayed  away  so  long  ? 

I  think  I  will  come  again  and  again  before  I  die  — 

And  perhaps  after  I  have  died;  for  in  the  white  graveyard 
on  the  hill 

Rest,  in  the  long  sleep,  some  whom  one  day  I  should  like 
to  join. 

I  wonder  shall  I  seem  to  them  as  strange  as  now  to  me 

The  image  of  my  own  self  as  I  was  in  the  days  of  child 
hood: 

An  image  that  haunts  me  hourly  while  here  I  wander 
and  dream, 

And  makes  me  strange  to  myself  in  a  curious  double 
existence. 


GLEN   GILDER  417 

The  old  friends  seem  to  know  me  —  but  I  am  never  de 
ceived  ; 

The  one  that  I  am  is  not  the  one  that  I  was  —  yet  truly 
No  one  but  I  ever  knew  the  youth  who  departed, 
And  the  youth  who  departed  still  lives  in  the  elder  re 
turning, 

In  whose  bosom  revive  the  days  that  forever  are  gone  — 
The  old  love  and  the  old  sweet  longings; 
The  old  love  for  the  old  place,  that  deepens  as  age  comes 

closer, 

And  the  heart  keeps  sighing  and  singing: 
There's  no  place  like  the  old  place! 

GLEN   GILDER 

How  curves  the  little  river  through  Glen  Gilder,  O  Glen 

Gilder; 
Now  it  runs  and  now  it  rushes,  now  it  sings  and  now  it 

hushes 
O'er  the  rocks  and  by  the  brushes  in  Glen  Gilder. 

All  music  is  the  river  in  Glen  Gilder,  O  Glen  Gilder; 
It  sounds  like  wild  birds  singing,  and  it  chimes  like  bells 

a-ringing  — 
Birds,  too,  their  songs  are  flinging  in  Glen  Gilder. 

O  mighty  are  the  willows  of  Glen  Gilder,  of  Glen  Gilder; 
Cool  the  air  and  cool  the  waters  'neath  the  giant  spread 
ing  shadows, 
And  beyond  wide  sweep  the  meadows  from  Glen  Gilder. 

O,  there's  life  and  fun  and  frolic  in  Glen  Gilder,  in  Glen 
Gilder; 

And  near  the  men  are  haying,  and  here  the  cows  are  stray 
ing, 

And  the  lambs  and  colts  are  playing  in  Glen  Gilder. 


418  THE   FIRE   DIVINE 

Spring  and  autumn  bring  a  change  to  fair  Glen  Gilder, 

O  Glen  Gilder; 
Above  the  banks  and  under  come  the  freshet's  rage  and 

thunder, 
And  men  look  with  awe  and  wonder  on  Glen  Gilder. 

O,  white  the  world  of  winter  in  Glen  Gilder,  in  Glen 

Gilder; 
'Neath  ice  the  waves  are  creeping,  or  down  in  dark 

pools  sleeping, 
Or  with  sound  of  sleigh-bells  leaping  in  Glen  Gilder. 

O,  beautiful  the  morning  in  Glen  Gilder,  in  Glen  Gilder; 
But,  O,  most  dear  and  tender  when  blooms  the  sunset 

splendor, 
At  dying  day's  surrender  in  Glen  Gilder. 

And  now  the  lingering  sunlight  leaves  Glen  Gilder,  O 
Glen  Gilder; 

While  moony  shades  are  stalking,  is  it  the  wavelets  talk 
ing, 

Or  whispering  lovers  walking  in  Glen  Gilder? 

SONG 

MARIA  mia!  all  in  white 

Your  fairy  form  against  the  night, 

Maria ! 

Maria  mia!  in  the  night 
Gleams  like  a  ghost  your  form  so  slight, 

Maria ! 

Maria  mia !  like  a  sprite 
Burn  those  eyes  in  dusky  light, 

Maria ! 


I   DREAMED  419 

Maria  mia !  sweet  and  wise 
Those  darkling,  deep,  Italian  eyes, 

Maria ! 

Maria  mia!  starry  skies 
Hold  no  such  brightness  as  those  eyes, 

Maria ! 

Maria  mia!  turn,  O  turn 
Those  eyes  away  that  beam  and  burn, 

Maria ! 

Maria  mia !  when  those  eyes 

Burn  close,  O  close,  I  am  not  wise, 

Maria ! 
I  am  not  wise, 

Maria ! 

OBSCURATION 

THIS  night,  when  I  blew  out  my  candle  flame, 

The  window's  dark  square  suddenly  turned  white !  — 

I  had  not  known  the  half-moon  shone  so  bright, 

And  that  a  cool,  sweet,  silent  moonbeam  came 

Through  summer  air,  faint-touched  with  autumn  frost, 

And  poured  upon  my  floor  a  pool  of  light ! 

Pure,  heavenly  visitant  —  and  almost  thou  wert  lost. 

"I    DREAMED" 

I  DREAMED  a  tender  and  mysterious  dream 
Of  one  who,  threading  paths  of  earthly  fate, 
In  a  rich  twilight  walked,  with  heart  aglow, 
And  all  his  soul  vibrant  with  unheard  tones, 
"Drawn,  drawn  by  the  soft  splendor  of  a  face." 


420  THE    FIRE    DIVINE 

IMPROMPTUS 

OM   LOVE  TO   LO 
(FOR  A  WEDDING) 

FROM  love  to  love  she  passes  on  this  day; 
Yet  all  the  love  she  leaves  with  her  doth  stay; 
Deep,  deep,  the  new  love,  in  her  heart  of  hearts, 
And  the  old  love  follows  her  when  she  departs: 
So  is  she  richer  than  she  was  before, 
For  of  true  love  she  hath  a  mightier  store. 

"l  ASKED  YOU  TO  READ  MY  POEM" 

I  ASKED  you  to  read  my  poem,  so  shameless  was  I, 
I  not  used  such  boon  and  service  to  ask; 

This  my  excuse  —  when  you  hear,  you  will  not  deny 
The  prayer  of  the  poet,  who  saw  the  soul  through  the 
mask. 

The  singer  sails  in  a  sea  beyond  sight  or  ken, 

And  he  flings  his  plummet  of  song  by  night  and  by 

day; 
With  his  poems  he  sounds  the  depths  of  the  souls  of 

men  — 
In  your  soul  my  song  I  flung  to  fathom  the  way. 

NAZIMOVA 

FROM  every  motion,  every  lovely  line, 

Breathe  art  and  passion;  music  from  those  lips; 

The  tragic  Orient  from  those  lustrous  eyes. 

A  WARRIOR  OF  TROY 

LET  other  gray-beards  mourn  the  flight  of  years, 
Finding  no  gains  of  eld  to  match  its  fears; 


IMPROMPTUS  421 

I  have  no  feud  with  fate,  nor  age,  nor  time, 
Who  knew  great  Helen  in  her  golden  prime. 

THE   OBELISK  (l88l) 

BENEATH  a  stone  wrenched  from  Egyptian  sands 

Six  rivers  run  through  six  imperial  lands; 

Nile,  Bosphorus,  Tiber,  Seine,  and  Thames,  till  now 

The  Hudson  wears  the  jewel  on  her  brow. 

Land  that  we  love !  O  be  thou,  by  this  sign, 

Tho'  last,  the  noblest  of  the  mighty  line. 

CROWNED    ABSURDITIES 

I  ASKED  me:  what  in  all  the  world  so  odd 
And  laughable  to  men,  and  unto  God  — 
The  hight  of  comedy  in  earthly  things? 
That  lot  of  little  men  pretending  to  be  kings! 

TO  "LITTLE  LADY  MARGARET"  —  WITH  A  BOOK  OF 
POEMS 

THEY  who  love  the  poets 

Will  never  lack  a  friend  — 
Up  the  road,  and  down  the  road, 

And  to  the  very  end. 

SACRILEGE 

WED,  thou,  with  sweet  and  silent  Death, 
Rather  than  join  the  prurient  throng 

Would  soil,  with  foul,  empoisoned  breath, 
The  sanctity  of  song. 

TO   THE   HERO   OF   A   SCIENTIFIC    ROMANCE 

IF  you  wish,  go  be  a  pig, 

In  and  out  of  season; 
But  do  not  bore  us  with  a  big 

Philosophic  reason. 


422  THE- FIRE    DIVINE 

THE   WATCHMAN    ON   THE   TOWER 
(JANUARY,  1907) 

WA  TCHMA  N  I    What  seest  thou  in  the  New  Dawn  ? 

Far  off,  across  the  seas,  I  behold  men  pursuing  men 
and  helpless  women  with  dreadful  massacre;  borne  on 
the  eastern  wind  I  hear  the  horrible  cries  of  the  murdered 
and  bereft. 
And  what  seest  thou  nearer,  O  Watchman  oj  the  Tower  ? 

Nearer  I  see  dark  and  cowering  forms  of  crime  and 
frightened  innocence,  alike  given  pitilessly  to  the  green 
tree  and  the  red  flame. 
And  what  else  nearer  dost  thou  see,  O  Seer  of  Evil  Things  ? 

I  see  smoldering  fires  and  drift  of  black  smoke  where 
all  manner  of  shames  have  been  burned  in  the  market 
places,  befouling  the  pure  air  of  heaven. 
And  now,  again,  thou  seest  —  ? 

I  see  scared  creatures,  in  shape  of  men,  fleeing  from 
the  light,  and  hiding  in  clefts  of  rocks,  and  in  far  places 
of  the  earth. 

Look  well,  O  Watchman,  look  near  and  wide,  and  tell  us, 
who  wait,  what  other  things  thou  dost  behold  1 

I  see  the  shining  faces  of  little  children  from  whose 
backs  heavy  burdens  have  been  lifted;  I  see  rich  men 
eagerly  scattering  their  wealth  among  those  who  need  — 
lifting  up  the  stricken  and  restoring  the  power  of  self- 
help  to  the  sturdy,  and  striving  to  make  less  hard  the  lot 
of  them  who  work;  I  see  those  who  labor  winning  an 
ampler  share  in  the  profits  of  their  toil  —  in  wage,  and 
comfort,  and  safety,  and  time  for  rest;  I  behold  Science 
conquering  the  secrets  and  guiding  the  forces  of  nature, 
and  creating  new  and  wondrous  devices  for  human  hap- 


THE   WATCHMAN    ON    THE    TOWER         423 

piness  —  working  miracles  in  culture  of  the  soil,  and  in 
the  cure  of  sickness;  I  behold  Art  going  up  and  down 
the  land,  making  homes  and  cities  more  beautiful;  I 
behold  Service  honored  above  possessions ;  I  see  men  as 
brothers,  —  in  times  of  calm  and  in  days  of  monstrous 
calamity,  —  stretching  hands  to  one  another  over  lands 
and  seas,  and  across  the  ancient  barriers  of  race,  and 
religion,  and  condition;  I  see  the  hearts  of  men  go  out, 
in  new  love  and  care  and  understanding,  to  the  beasts  of 
the  field  and  to  the  birds  of  the  air;  I  hear  the  voices  of 
poets  and  prophets  troubling  the  hearts  and  lifting  up 
the  souls  of  all  mankind ;  and  in  all  these  I  see  the  mind 
of  the  Son  of  Man,  and  the  power  of  the  Will  Eternal. 

O  Seer  of  Good  and  Evil,  what  else,  what  else  ? 

Near  by  I  behold  the  Angel  of  a  People,  and  in  his 
hand  he  bears  a  standard  whereon  is  writ,  in  letters  of 
light,  the  one  word  Truth ;  higher  he  bears  the  standard 
than  ever  before,  and  the  people,  in  gathering  numbers, 
follow  the  Word. 

And  what  of  the  evil  things  that  late  thou  sawest  ? 

Still  I  see  them,  and  many  more,  but  fainter  are  they 
growing,  as  by  some  element  of  light  consumed.  Yet 
doth  one  strange  and  greatly  evil  thing  loom  with  menace 
against  the  dawn  —  the  shadow  of  false  and  self-seeking 
men  who  seize  the  banner  of  righteousness  and  with 
unclean  hands  uplift  it,  to  the  deceiving  of  many;  and 
yet  even  here,  I  know,  it  is  the  love  of  Right  and  not  of 
Wrong  which  doth  mislead;  and  as  the  light  increases, 
surely  the  pure  in  heart  shall  know  their  own  and  shun 
the  deceiver  of  souls. 

And  what  o)  the  good  that  late  thou  sawest  ? 

O  still  I  see  the  good,  and  with  clearer  eyes;  and,  lo,  it 


424  THE   FIRE   DIVINE 

doth  appear  that,  in  the  light  of  the  New  Dawn,  greater 
and  always  greater  grows  the  good,  and  nearer  and  al 
ways  nearer.  For  now,  with  the  rising  sun,  a  company  of 
angels  in  new  flight  lift  their  wings  and  come  upon  the 
day,  and  one  is  the  bright  Angel  of  Freedom,  and  one  the 
strong  Angel  of  Justice,  and  one  is  the  undaunted  Angel 
of  Peace,  and  one  the  Angel  of  Hope  Everlasting.  With 
a  great  and  wonderful  burst  of  light  they  come,  and  with 
loud  music  of  instruments  and  many  voices. 

O  Watcher  of  the  Dawn!  thou  seest  what  is,  but  canst  thou 
see  what  yet  shall  be  ? 

O  ye  who  doubt !  In  the  visible  present  lives  the  invisi 
ble  future,  and  the  hour  that  is  brings  the  hour  that  shall 
be.  If  the  Light  grows,  it  shall  not  cease  to  grow ;  and  the 
good  that  is  brings  the  good  that  is  to  come.  As  with 
separate  souls,  so  with  peoples  —  the  New  Year,  tho'  it 
holds  inheritance  of  shame  and  loss,  holds,  also,  inher 
itance  of  striving,  and  accomplishment,  and  divine  aspi 
ration.  Lo,  the  Light  is  climbing,  not  only  of  a  New  Year, 
but  of  a  New  Era  for  the  awakening  world. 

UNDER  THE  STARS 

A  REQUIEM  FOR  AUGUSTUS   SAINT-GAUDENS 

I 

0  KINDRED  stars,  wherethrough  his  soul  in  flight 
Past  to  the  immortals!  'neath  your  ageless  light 

1  stand  perplext,  remembering  that  keen  spirit 
Quenched  in  mid-strength;  the  world,  that  shall  inherit 
His  legacy  of  genius,  all  deprived 

Of  wealth  untold,  the  still  ungathered  fruit 
Of  that  great  art!  What  honey  all  unhived; 
What  unborn  grandeurs;  noble  music  mute! 


UNDER   THE    STARS  425 

II 

O  silent  stars!  even  as  I  barken  here, 
Heart-heavy,  a  murmurous  and  mysterious  voice, 
Blent  with  sweet  wiry  tones,  on  the  inward  ear 
Strikes,  and  I  hear  the  summons :  "  O  rejoice, 
Rejoice  and  mourn  not!"   Then  that  wondrous  star 
Now  drawn  near  earth,  —  named  for  the  god  of  war,  — 
The  fiery  planet  cries  across  the  night: 
"Victory,  Victory,  he  hath  won  the  fight!" 

m 

O  star  of  fire !  he  was  thy  very  child ! 

Mixt  with  his  blood  thy  fierce,  ensanguined  ray ! 

'Gainst  the  proud  forces  of  the  sordid  day 

He  battled  valiantly,  all  unbeguiled 

By  what  might  tempt  or  foil  a  lesser  soul. 

Not  wealth,  nor  ease,  nor  praise  unworthily  won 

Could  touch  his  spirit ;  —  "  There  the  swift  course  to  run ! " 

"There,  there,  O  see!  the  bright,  immortal  goal!" 

IV 

Thou  star  of  blood  and  battle !  rich  and  sweet 
Thy  liquid  gleam,  where,  in  the  twilight  sky, 
Thou  shinest  greatly!   So  did  his  art  repeat 
Thy  strength,  thy  loveliness;  thy  ministry, — 
In  a  dark,  harmful  world,  —  of  Beauty's  guerdon ;  — 
Beauty  that  broods,  enlightens,  and  makes  endure 
The  heart  of  man  beneath  its  heavy  burden, 
Lifting  above  the  strife  a  deathless  lure. 

v 

O  starry  skies!    O  palpitant  winds  whose  throbbings 
From  out  the  vast  of  heaven  pulse  and  flow ! 
In  light  and  sound  eterne  our  human  sobbings 


426  THE   FIRE   DIVINE 

Are  lost.  —  How  dear  to  him  who  lieth  low 
The  garment  wonderful  wild  nature  throws 
About  its  inner  life :  green  glades  withdrawn ; 
Anger  of  ocean;  radiance  of  the  rose; 
The  pomp  superb  of  sunset  and  of  dawn. 

VI 

White,  trembling  fires  of  the  unknown  universe ! 
Ye  speak  of  some  august,  inscrutable  Power 
Creative,  from  whose  hand,  to  bless  or  curse, 
Ye  were  sent  forth  —  thrillingly,  in  an  hour 
Of  force  stupendous,  swift,  immeasurable; 
To-night  those  unconsuming  fires  tell 
Of  one  who,  in  the  splendor  of  his  passion, 
Alas!  tho'  mortal,  could  the  immortal  fashion. 

VII 

O  stars  that  sing  as  in  creation's  prime ! 

He  whom,  with  love  and  tears,  we  celebrate, 

He,  like  the  Power  that  made  ye,  could  create  — 

Bringing  to  birth  new  beauty  for  all  time: 

Once,  lo !  these  shapes  were  not,  now  do  they  live, 

And  shall  forever  in  the  hearts  of  men ; 

And  from  their  life  new  life  shall  spring  again, 

To  souls  unborn  new  light  and  joy  to  give. 

vm 

Ye  stars,  all  music  to  the  spirit's  ear! 

Before  the  imperial  music-masters  knelt 

This  master  of  an  art  sublime,  austere; 

The  very  soul  of  music  in  him  dwelt, 

So  in  his  lines  the  haunting  strains  of  lyres, 

From  gracious  forms  deep  tones  symphonic  spring; 

Once  more  we  hear  the  sound  of  heavenly  wires, 

Again  the  stars  of  morn  together  sing. 


UNDER   THE   STARS  427 

IX 

Red  star  of  war!  thy  sons  did  he  enshrine 

In  glorious  art  —  fighters  on  sea  and  land; 

In  bronze  they  give  again  the  brave  command; 

In  bronze  they  march  resistless,  in  divine 

Ecstasy  of  devotion,  not  in  wrath; 

The  fire  and  fury  of  battle  he  made  real, 

But  like  God's  prophets  moved  they  on  their  path 

Led  and  uplifted  by  the  great  Ideal. 


O  fateful  stars!  that  lit  the  climbing  way 

Of  that  dear,  martyred  son  of  fate  and  fame,  — 

The  supreme  soul  of  an  immortal  day,  — 

Linked  with  his  name  is  our  great  sculptor's  name; 

For  now  in  art  eternal  breathes  again 

The  gaunt,  sweet  presence  of  our  chief  of  men — 

That  soul  of  tenderness;  that  spirit  stern, 

Whose  fires  divine  forever  flame  and  burn. 

XI 

Stars  of  white  midnight !  tho'  unseen  by  day, 
Imagined!  He  the  unseen  could  subtly  see 
And  image  forth  in  most  divine  array: 
Blest  Charity,  and  Love,  and  Loyalty, 
And  Victory,  and  Grief;  and,  with  a  touch 
Made  tender  by  heroic  years  of  pain,  — 
Telling  in  art  what  words  might  not  contain,  — 
The  calm,  sweet  face  of  Him  who  suffered  much. 

xn 

Mysterious  sky!  where  orbs  constellate  reign! 
Toward  which  the  heart  of  man  through  endless  ages 


428  THE   FIRE   DIVINE 

Hath  flung  eternal  questionings  in  vain  — 

Yet  hath  he  read  a  little  in  thy  pages; 

And  him  we  miss,  learned  well  from  thee  to  mold,  — 

As  by  the  hand  of  Fate,  in  time's  dark  womb,  — 

That  mystic  form,  a  thousand  centuries  old; 

That  mournless  mourner  near  a  tragic  tomb. 

xm 

Ye  stars  eternal !  in  your  motions  wide 

I  feel  the  march  of  time;  audibly  pours 

To  faithful  ears  the  immemorial  tide 

Of  starry  seas  that  beat  on  infinite  shores; 

And,  in  that  music  magical,  cold  death,  — 

And  grief  its  shadow,  —  melt  and  are  undone ; 

And  that  which  brings  the  miracle  of  breath, 

And  that  which  takes, — ay,  that  which  takes,  —  are  one. 

XIV 

O  star  of  war !  beyond  thy  troublous  beams 

His  freed  soul  wings  to  a  great  calm  at  last; 

The  deep  night,  with  its  tremulous,  starry  streams 

Of  light  celestial,  pours  repose  so  vast 

Naught  can  escape  that  flood;  and  now  the  faces, 

Angelical,  he  molded  with  pure  art, 

In  majesty  look  forth  from  heavenly  spaces. 

Enter  thy  peace,  O  high,  tempestuous  heart! 


IN    HELENA'S   GARDEN 


IN  HELENA'S  GARDEN 

PART  I 
IN  HELENA'S  GARDEN 

THE   SUNSET    WINDOW 

THROUGH  the  garden  sunset- window 

Shines  the  sky  of  rose; 
Deep  the  melting  red,  and  deeper, 

Lovelier  it  grows. 

Musically  falls  the  fountain ; 

Twilight  voices  chime; 
Visibly  upon  the  cloud-lands 

Tread  the  feet  of  Time. 

Evening  winds  from  down  the  valley 

Stir  the  waters  cool ; 
Break  the  dark,  empurpled  shadows 

In  the  marble  pool. 

Rich  against  the  high-walled  grayness 

The  crimson  lily  glows, 
And  near,  O  near,  one  well-loved  presence 

Dream-like  comes  and  goes. 

"  THE  GRAY  WALLS   OF  THE   GARDEN  " 

THE  gray  walls  of  the  garden 
Hold  many  and  many  a  bloom; 

A  flame  of  red  against  the  gray 
Is  lightning  in  the  gloom. 


432  IN  HELENA'S  GARDEN 

The  gray  walls  of  the  garden 

Hold  grassy  walks  between 
Bright  beds  of  yellow  blossoms, 

Golden  against  the  green. 

And  in  the  roof  of  the  arbor 

Leaves  woven  through  and  through,  — 

Great  grape  leaves,  making  shadows,  — 
Shine  green  against  the  blue. 

And,  O,  in  the  August  weather 
What  wonders  new  are  seen! 

Long  beds  of  azure  blossoms 
Cool  blue  against  the  green. 

The  gray  walls  of  the  garden 

Hold  paths  of  pure  delight, 
And,  in  the  emerald,  blooms  of  pearl 

Are  white  against  the  night. 

THE  MARBLE    POOL 

THE  marble  pool,  like  the  great  sea,  hath  moods  — 
Fierce  angers,  slumbers,  deep  beatitudes. 

In  sudden  gusts  the  pool,  in  lengthened  waves,  — 
As  in  a  mimic  tempest,  —  tosses  and  raves. 

In  the  still,  drowsy,  dreaming  midday  hours 

It  sleeps  and  dreams  among  the  dreaming  flowers. 

'Neath  troubled  skies  the  surface  of  its  sleep 
Is  fretted ;  how  the  big  drops  rush  and  leap ! 

Now  't  is  a  mirror  where  the  sky  of  night 
Sees  its  mysterious  face  of  starry  light; 


IN   HELENA'S   GARDEN  433 

Or  where  the  tragic  sunset  is  reborn, 
Or  the  sweet,  virginal  mystery  of  morn. 

One  little  pool  holds  ocean,  brink  to  brink; 
One  little  heart  can  hold  the  world,  I  think. 

THE  TABLE  ROUND 

I 

WHAT  think  you  of  the  Table  Round 

Which  the  garden's  rustic  arbor 

In  pride  doth  harbor? 

And  what  its  weight,  how  many  a  pound? 

Or  shall  you  reckon  that  in  tons? 

For  this  is  of  earth's  mighty  ones: 

A  mill-stone  't  is,  that  turns  no  more, 

But,  on  a  pier  sunk  deep  in  ground, 

Like  a  ship  that's  come  to  shore, 

Content  among  its  flowery  neighbors 

It  rests  forever  from  its  labors. 

ii 

Now  no  more  'mid  grind  and  hammer 
Are  the  toiling  moments  past, 
But  amid  a  milder  clamor 
Stays  it  fast. 

For  the  Garden  Lady  here, 
When  the  summer  sky  is  clear, 
With  her  bevy  of  bright  daughters 
(Each  worth  a  sonnet) 
To  the  tune  of  plashing  waters 
Serves  the  tea  upon  it. 

in 

And  when  Maria,  and  when  Molly, 
Frances,  Alice,  Grace,  Cecilia, 
Clara,  Bess,  and  Pretty  Polly, 


434  IN  HELENA'S  GARDEN 

Lolah  and  the  dark  Amelia, 
Come  with  various  other  ladies, 
Certain  boys,  and  grown-ups  graver  — 
Then,  be  sure,  not  one  afraid  is 
To  let  his  wit  give  forth  its  flavor, 
With  the  fragrant  odor  blent 
Of  the  Souchong,  and  the  scent 
Of  the  roses  and  sweet-peas 
And  other  blossoms  sweet  as  these. 
Then,  indeed,  doth  joy  abound 
About  the  granite  table  round, 
And  the  stream  of  laughter  flowing 
Almost  sets  the  old  stone  going. 

THE  SUN-DIAL 

ON  the  sun-dial  in  the  garden 
The  great  sun  keeps  the  time; 

A  faint,  small  moving  shadow, 
And  we  know  the  worlds  are  in  rhyme; 

And  if  once  that  shadow  should  falter 
By  the  space  of  a  child's  eye-lash  — 

The  seas  would  devour  the  mountains, 
And  the  stars  together  crash. 


SOMETHING  missing  from  the  garden? 

But  all's  bright  there; 
Color  in  the  daytime, 

Perfume  in  the  night  there. 

Something  wanting  in  the  garden? 
Yet  the  blossoms 


IN  HELENA'S  GARDEN  435 

Bring  the  hum-birds  to  the  sweetness 
In  their  bosoms. 

And  by  day  the  sunlight  golden 

On  the  granite 
Glistens,  and  by  night  the  silver  starlight 

From  some  near  planet. 

Something  missing  from  the  garden  ? 

But  the  mountain 
Ceaseless  pours  a  secret  streamlet 

Filmy  from  the  fountain; 

And  that  streamlet  winds  blow,  wave-like, 

Down  the  flowers, 
And,  in  the  mist,  faint,  flickering  rainbows 

Flash  through  mimic  showers. 

Something  wanting  in  the  garden 

When  all's  bright  there? 
Color  in  the  daytime, 

Perfume  in  the  night  there? 

Then  what  missing  from  the  garden 

Spoils  its  pleasance  ?  — 
Just  a  breath  of  something  human; 

Just  one  presence. 

THREE   FLOWERS    OF   THE   GARDEN 

THREE  blossoms  in  a  happy  garden  grow  — 
Have  care,  for  this  one,  lo,  is  white  as  any  snow : 
Its  name  is  Peace. 

Three  flowers  —  and  one,  in  hue,  a  delicate  gold ; 

A  harsh  breath,  then  its  golden  leaves  shall  droop  and  fold 

Its  name  is  Joy. 


436  IN  HELENA'S  GARDEN 

Three  flowers  —  and  one  is  crimson,  rich  and  strong ; 
This  will,  if  well  entreated,  all  others  outlive  long : 
Its  name  is  Love. 


EARLY  AUTUMN 

THE  garden  still  is  green 
And  green  the  trees  around  — 

But  the  winds  are  roaring  overhead 
And  branches  strew  the  ground. 

/*     And  to-day  on  the  garden  pool 

Floated  an  autumn  leaf: 
How  rush  the  seasons,  rush  the  years, 
And,  O,  how  life  is  brief! 

THE  LAST   FLOWER  OF   THE   GARDEN 

ONE  by  one  the  flowers  of  the  garden 
To  autumn  yielded  as  waned  the  sun; 

So  prisoners,  called  by  the  cruel  Terror, 
To  death  went,  one  by  one. 

Roses,  and  many  a  delicate  blossom, 
Down  fell  their  heads,  in  the  breezes  keen, 

One  by  one  ;  and  the  frost  of  autumn 
Was  the  blade  of  their  guillotine. 

And  at  last  an  hour  when  the  emerald  pathways 
Grew  from  green  to  a  wintry  white; 

And  a  new,  strange  beauty  came  into  the  garden 
In  the  full  moon's  flooding  light. 

For  a  radiance  struck  on  the  columned  fountain 
As  it  shot  to  the  stars  in  a  trembling  stream, 

And  a  rainbow,  springing  above  the  garden, 
Was  the  dream  of  a  dream  in  a  dream. 


THE   VOICE   OF   THE   HIGHT  437 

And  we  who  loved  well  that  place  of  flowers 
Looked  with  awe  on  the  wondrous  birth, 

And  knew  that  the  last  flower  of  the  garden 
Was  something  not  of  earth. 


PART    II 

THE  LION  OF  TYRINGHAM 

MIDWAY  the  valley,  fronting  the  flusht  morn, 
The  huge  beast  stretches  prone,  as  by  the  Nile 
The  enormous  Sphinx;  so  nature  mimics  nature, 
And  man's  own  art  —  tho'  never  such  vast  shape 
By  man  was  fashioned.    Thus  through  ages  long 
Hath  he  the  tempest  and  the  rain  endured, 
And  the  all-rending  frost,  and  the  great  sun, 
And  the  remorseless  winters  of  the  world. 

What  shall  that  immemorial  rest  disturb? 

His  monstrous  head  down  prest  betwixt  huge  paws. 

How  well  he  sleeps!  Not  deeper  slumber  holds 

The  dead  in  the  white  city  far  below. 

And  shall  he  waken  ?  —  Shall  the  dead  awake  ? 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  HIGHT 
i 

OF  a  dream  I  would  sing  and  a  river  I  saw  in  a  dream  — » 
Of  souls  that  the  river  divided,  so  wide  was  the  stream, 
So  wide  and  so  deep  that  neither  the  other  beheld. 
And  they   gazed   on   the   ocean   near,  by  terror  com 
pelled  — 

On  the  infinite  ocean  whither  their  barks  had  been  hurled 
In  a  tempest  that  drove  from  the  ultimate,  unseen  world. 


438  IN  HELENA'S  GARDEN 

By  that  ocean  they  stood  in  awe,  and  remembrance,  and 

wonder; 
Troubled  their  hearts  with  the  ceaseless  surge  and  the 

thunder  — 
Till  in  fear  they  turned,  and  they  gazed  on  the  inland 

bight, 
And  the  mountains  that  called  by  day  and  beckoned  by 

night, 

And,  each  to  the  other  unknown,  by  that  call  was  shaken : 
O,  lost  is  the  soul  that  the  voice  of  the  hight  shall  not 

waken, 
Nor  heavenward  climb  by  the  paths  high  hearts  have 

taken. 

H 

Inland  the  new  souls  urged,  by  river  and  marsh, 
Treading  with  stedfast  feet  the  roadways  harsh. 
Inland  and  up  through  fields  of  flower  or  thorn, 
Through  forests  rude,  and  through  desert  ways  forlorn  — 
Upward  and  on  by  meadows  blossoming  bright 
Or  where,  under  pestilent  breath,  the  earth  was  blight; 
Onward  and  up  —  and  still  by  the  river's  brink 
Where,  nigh  unto  death,  they  lived  by  the  living  drink. 

in 

And  now,  behold,  they  nearer  and  nearer  drew 
Till  each  pilgrim  soul  the  other  beheld  and  knew, 
And  climbing  thus  ever  higher,  they  came  more  nigh, 
Above  the  enfolding  mists,  'neath  the  bending  sky  — 
Till  at  last  at  the  river's  source,  near  the  mountain's 

crest, 

At  the  selfsame  spring  they  drank,  and  the  waters  of  rest; 
For  they  followed  the  paths  high  hearts  have  climbed  to 

the  sun, 
And  the  souls  that  the  river  divided  became  as  one. 


A   SONG   OF   FRIENDSHIP  439 

A  SONG  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

WE  have  come  nearer,  friend! 
The  thought  of  each,  to  each 
Shines  clearer,  dearer,  friend! 

All  doubts  have  fled  away; 
Strange  deeds  and  baffling  speech 
Now  are  clear  as  day. 

Naught  between  us,  naught 
To  hurt  or  separate; 
No  battles  to  be  fought. 

Friends  now,  in  more  than  name; 
Forever  friends,  our  fate  — 
Tho'  never  again  the  same. 

We  have  come  nearer,  friend! 
Would  it  were  not  so  late, 
But  all  the  dearer,  friend! 

What  sorcery,  new  and  strange, 
What  word,  what  mystic  token, 
Has  worked  the  wondrous  change  ? 

No  word  of  secret  powers, 
Nothing  sung  or  spoken, 
Only  the  near,  dear  hours 

Under  the  starry  sky; 
Trust  and  peace  unbroken; 
Silence,  and  a  sigh. 


440  IN  HELENA'S  GARDEN 

A   ROSE   OF   DREAM 

I  DREAMED  a  rose ;  it  bloomed 

Beyond  compare; 
Of  all  wild  blossoms  by  the  wayside 

Most  rich,  most  sweet,  most  rare. 

So  lovely  was  the  rose 

I  could  but  love  it, 
As,  drinking  deep  its  fragrant  soul, 

I  bent  above  it. 

O  tenderly  its  leaves 

Outbreathed  their  beauty; 
Humbly  to  worship  at  that  shrine 

Was  my  dear  duty. 

Once,  when  in  the  twilight  hour, 

Its  spirit  drew  me  — 
O  wonderful!   I  was  aware 

That  wild  rose  knew  me. 

Knew  me,  my  inmost  heart  — 

And,  O  above 
All  joy  imagined !  lo !  my  rose 

Gave  love  for  love. 

SONG 

O,  WHITHER  has  she  fled  from  out  the  dawning  and  the 

day? 

Empty  is  the  dark  of  her,  and  twilight  silver  gray, 
For  the  world  that  she  makes  happy  now  is  far  and  far 

away. 


WHEN   GIRLS    COME    TO   THE    OLD   HOUSE    441 

Strange,  because  a   girl  is  gone  the  stars  are   not  so 

bright, 
The  sunset   sky  not   fair  as   once,  nor  morning  after 

night, 
While  from  the  day  has  past  away  a  dear  and  lovely 

light. 

Come  back,  come  back,  my  darling  girl,  and  set  the  stars 
aglow ; 

And  make  the  daylight  dear  again,  and  make  the  blos 
soms  blow; 

Come  back,  come  back,  my  golden  girl,  never  again  to  go. 

"WHEN   THE  GIRLS   COME  TO  THE  OLD 
HOUSE  " 


WHEN  the  girls  come 

To  the  old  house,  to  the  old,  old  home; 

When  the  girls  race  through  it, 

How  will  they  endue  it 

With  light  and  warmth  and  fun, 

Beyond  the  touch  of  the  sun. 

II 

When  the  girls  run  through  it, 
How  the  old  house  will  awaken ! 
Never  fear !   It  will  not  rue  it 
When  it  feels  its  old  bones  shaken, 
From  ancient  sill  to  centuried  rafter, 
With  sweet  girl  laughter. 

in 

When  the  girls  race  through  it, 

How  each  old  ghost  in  its  own  old  nook, 


442  IN  HELENA'S  GARDEN 

That  it  never  forsook, 
How  it  will  run 
When  the  girls  pursue  it 
With  frolic  and  fun! 

IV 

Old  house !  old  home !   Come,  light 

The  fires  again  on  the  dear  hearths  of  old. 

All  must  be  bright; 

Not  a  room  shall  be  cold; 

And  on  the  great  hearth,  —  where,  in  the  old  days, 

Beside  the  fierce  blaze 

There  was  room,  and  to  spare,  for  each  grown-up  and 

child,— 
High  let  the  fire  be  piled! 

v 

Old  house !   Old  home !   You  need  no  wine 

To  cheer  you  now,  for  the  joyous  ripple 

Of  girlish  laughter  is  quite  enough  tipple! 

O,  what  liquor 

Like  the  innocent  shine, 

The  sparkle  and  flicker, 

In  the  eyes  of  youth ! 

And,  of  a  truth, 

*T  is  youth,  old  house!  't  is  youth  that  fills  you; 

Youth  that  calls  to  you;  youth  that  thrills  you. 

VI 

Old  house !   Old  home !   O,  do  not  dare 

To  be  sad,  tho'  aware 

Of  the  golden,  and  the  raven,  and  the  pretty,  pretty  curls, 

Of  the  little  dead  girls  — 

Treasures  put  away  in  the  old  chest  in  the  garret. 

Be  glad,  old  house !  the  new  girls  have  come  to  share  it : 

The  great,  deep  hearth,  with  room  and  to  spare; 


THE   SONG   OF  A   SONG  443 

The  dark  garret,  and  the  wide  hall,  and  the  quaint,  old 

stair  — 

And  to  bring  back  to  earth 
The  old,  sweet  mirth. 

THE  SONG   OF  A  SONG 


"WHEN  in  the  morning  you  wake," 

Said  the  Song; 

"  You  shall  remember  me 

All  the  day  long, 

As  the  bird  remembers  the  tree, 

As  the  swan  remembers  the  lake. 

And  when  the  stars  go,  one  by  one, 

Like  bright  souls  banished, 

Your  heart  shall  echo  the  Song  of  the  sad  Stars  vanished. 

ii 

"When  comes  the  day,  with  rush  and  run, 
Over  the  roofs  the  shadow  from  the  rising  sun  that  falls,  — 
Over  the  roofs  and  down  the  walls, 
Along  the  roofs  and  over  the  brink,  — 
This  shall  make  you  think 
Of  the  Song  that  sang  the  Shadow,  and  sang  the  Sun. 

HI 

"And  the  narrow  street, 
This  have  I  sung  so  sweet 
That  you  cannot,  even  if  you  would, 
Lose  the  Song;  and  your  feet 
Its  music  shall  repeat, 
As  a  bird  sings  in  a  wood  — 
Cheerily,  cheerily  sings, 
Remembering  lovely  things. 


444  IN   HELENA'S   GARDEN 

IV 

"And  the  vine  on  the  house  where  you  live," 

Said  the  Song, 

1  The  vine  that  I  sang  in  blossom,  or  wintry  bare  — 

You  shall  sing  to  yourself  the  air 

Of  the  Song  of  the  Vine  ;  it  shall  follow  you  every 
where; 

Of  the  vine  like  a  silent,  purple  cataract  pouring  down, 

Here  in  the  midst  of  the  noise  and  the  dust  of  the 
town. 

Are  you  gay  ?  Do  you  grieve  ?  — 

The  Song  will  find  you ; 

Whether  you  stay  or  go  the  Vine  will  remind  you 

Of  the  Song  of  the  Vine,  the  Song  of  the  House  of  the 
Vine  — 

The  Song  of  Home,  and  Children,  and  Love  Divine. 

v 

"And  the  Song  of  the  Stars,  and  the  Shadow,  and 

Rising  Sun, 

And  the  Song  of  the  Street, 
Whose  music  is  in  your  feet, 

And  the  Song  of  the  Vine,  and  the  House  of  the  Vine  — 
One  poet  has  sung  them  all, 
And  they  are  but  one," 
Said  the  Song. 

THE  NET 

CAUGHT  in  the  golden  net  of  the  poet's  song, 

And  held  there  close  and  long, 

How  many  a  marvelous  thing! 

A  humming-bird's  invisible  wing; 

A  rose  that  sent  its  luring  fragrance  through  night  air, 

Taken  all  unaware; 


SONG  445 

The  star  of  dawn  that  knew  not  human  eyes 

Dared  its  inviolate  secrecies; 

A  tear  shed  by  an  archangel  who  looked  down 

On  an  unpitying  town; 

A  maiden's  dream  wherefrom  she  woke 

And  into  secret,  silent  tremors  broke; 

And  (O,  ye  wandering,  wan  and  wayward  feet, 

Beware  that  music  piercing  sweet  — 

That  all  too  ravishing  art !) 

Caught  in  the  golden  net  of  the  poet's  song, 

(Pray  Heaven  there  come  no  wrong !) 

One  little,  fluttering  heart. 

SONG 

O  PURER  far  than  ever  I ! 

Be  nobler  than  to  choose  me: 
Flee  from  me,  Sweet;  I  fain  would  die 

If  thou  shouldst  not  refuse  me. 

And  when  I'm  dead,  and  thou,  too,  Sweet, 

Because  I  did  refuse  thee; 
Perhaps  our  new-born  souls  may  meet 

And  know,  and  I  not  lose  thee. 

SONG 

I  AWOKE  in  the  morning  not  knowing 

What  it  was  that  had  set  my  heart  glowing; 

Something  had  come  to  me 

That  was  the  sum  to  me 

Of  all  human  happiness  —  crown  of  life's  bliss. 

Tho'  drowsyhead  sleep  its  image  might  blot, 

I  knew  it  was  there,  tho'  its  shape  I  forgot. 

My  mind  was  blue  sky  with  nothing  but  joy  in  it; 


446  IN  HELENA'S  GARDEN 

Not  even  a  dream  of  the  night  had  employ  in  it; 

No  cloud  dimmed  the  blue; 

Then  I  said:  "Shall  I  miss 

My  nameless,  new  bliss?" 

When  sudden  it  came 

Like  lightning,  like  flame; 

And,  ah,  it  was  this  — 

It  was  you ! 

"WHEN  THE  WAR  FLEET  PUTS  TO   SEA" 

WHEN  the  war  fleet  puts  to  sea, 
And  the  great  guns  thunder, 

Our  hearts  leap  up  in  glee 
And  awe  and  wonder  — 

When  the  war  fleet  puts  to  sea. 

Let  it  be  peace,  not  war, 

The  strong  ships  carry; 
Two  coasts  that  stretch  afar 

Now  meet  and  marry  — 
Let  it  be  peace,  not  war. 

And  let  no  ill  befall! 

Be  kind,  ye  fates! 
Stern  skies  preserve  them  all 

In  the  stormy  straits  — 
O,  let  no  ill  befall. 

And  if  dread  war  shall  loom 

In  far-off  days, 
Let  the  shotted  cannon  boom 

In  prayer  and  praise  — 
If  dreadful  war  shall  loom. 


ART  447 

Behind  the  bellowing  guns 

That  do  their  part, 
Let  stand  the  nation's  sons 

All  pure  in  heart  — 
Behind  the  bellowing  guns. 

Then  not  in  pride  or  hate 

Let  one  shot  speed; 
Be  righteous  souls  elate 

To  do  the  deed  - 
O,  not  in  pride  or  hate. 

And  thou,  Eternal  Power! 

Bring  swift  the  day 
When  Right  shall  rule  the  hour, 

And  Peace  alone  have  sway  — 
O,  high  Eternal  Power! 

ART 

(MISS  GERALDINE  FARRAR  IN  "  MADAMA  BUTTERFLY  ") 

A  LITTLE,  loosened  leaf  of  painted  paper 

Slow  quivering  down 
From  a  stage  Nagasaki  cherry-tree 

That  screens  a  painted  town. 

And  flitting  back  and  forth  in  silken  robes 

A  figure  slight, 

With  orient  gestures,  and  fixt  orient  smile, 
And  voice  of  pure  delight. 

And  every  note  she  sang  and  word  she  spoke 

Was  for  her  writ; 
Not  nature  here,  but  art  and  artifice, 

And  cunning  human  wit. 


448  IN  HELENA'S  GARDEN 

Yet  when  that  paper  petal  trembled  down, 

Spring  thrilled  the  air; 
And  when  she  sang,  I  knew  love's  hight  and  depth 

And  passion  and  despair. 

IN  PRAISE   OF  PORTRAITURE1 

MYRIADS  of  souls  from  out  the  unknown  vast 

Flash  forth  and  swift  return.    Tho'  something  stays, — 

Remembered  words  and  deeds,  —  the  look  they  wore 

Were  lost  forever  save  for  the  art  we  praise  — 

The  art  that  holds  the  fleeting  spirit  fast: 

Afield,  in  household  ways,  at  rest,  a-dance; 

The  sweet,  companionable  presence;  the  austere 

Demeanor,  hiding  a  rich  heart;  the  glance, 

Intense  and  penetrant,  that  says  a  soul  is  here. 

A  soul  is  here,  even  as  in  life  it  lived, 
It  wantoned,  it  impassioned,  joyed  and  grieved; 
So  might  an  angel  through  life's  doorway  peer, 
Half  drawing  back  as  if  in  mortal  fear; 
So  might  a  lost  soul  linger,  leaving  here 
Remembrance  of  the  horror  of  its  doom: 
A  living  soul,  defiant  of  the  tomb. 

Great  were  the  masters  of  the  art  we  praise, 
In  other  lands,  in  past  and  splendid  days. 
What  souls  the  chief  Venetian  in  his  art 
Makes  to  the  eye  apparent,  and  the  heart! 
What  warriors,  princes,  women  all  of  grace: 
Beauty  of  body,  loveliness  of  face! 
Master  of  color,  he,  well-nigh  supreme, 
Who  nobly  drew  that  which  before  was  dream ! 

Glorious  is  Spain  in  the  proud  souls  that  breathe 

l  Address,  presenting  Cecilia  Beaux  to  the  Provost  of  The  University 
of  Pennsylvania  for  the  degree  of  LL.  D.,  February  22,  1908. 


IN   PRAISE    OF   PORTRAITURE  449 

In  that  most  delicate  and  subtle  touch,  — 
The  art  miraculous,  the  not  too  much,  — 
Of  him  whose  brows  the  generations  wreathe 
With  laurel  on  laurel,  as  the  world  grows  old, 
And  all  its  annals  one  Velasquez  hold. 

And  by  the  northern  seas  his  art  sublime 
That  trembles  with  the  tragedies  of  time  — 
His  art  who  knew  all  mysteries  of  light, 
Not  less  the  heart  of  man;  for  in  his  sight 
No  secret  could  endure,  and  on  his  page 
The  soul's  dark  pathos  lives  from  age  to  age. 

They  live  indeed,  whom  art  has  made  to  live  — 
How  real  from  the  canvas  forth  they  look 
And  judgment  seem  on  our  own  selves  to  give 
As  we  judge  them. 

Miraculous  art,  that  took 
Through  all  the  centuries  the  tongue  of  praise, 
And  worthy  all  honors,  not  for  the  old  days 
Alone,  and  painters  gone  before  —  no  less 
For  those  who  dare  discipleship  confess 
And  in  the  footsteps  of  the  mighty  tread. 
With  modern  skill  the  ancient  mode  they  keep; 
On  the  old  altar  burns  the  authentic  fire ; 
Priests  of  the  ancient  faith,  that  never  sleep; 
They,  with  new  masters  of  the  sacred  lyre, 
And  all  the  sons  of  genius,  still  aspire 
Purely  and  greatly;  rendering  our  late  time, 
Not  less  than  that  long  gone,  imperial,  sublime ! 

Lady,  shrink  not  that  you,  to-day,  we  name 
In  the  same  breath  with  the  age-conquering  fame 
Of  them  most  glorious  in  a  mighty  line. 
Not  for  the  living  is  it  to  assign 
Rank  to  the  living,  in  the  long  roll  of  art. 
But  blame  us  not  if  here  we  crown  the  intent 


450  IN  HELENA'S  GARDEN 

Not  less  than  the  sincere  accomplishment. 

We  only  know  the  art  we  see  and  love 

Is  beautiful,  intense,  most  subtile,  rare, 

And  tho'  with  something  from  our  New  World  air 

Athrill,  yet  is  it  masterful,  above 

All  else,  with  the  old  mastery  —  not  old 

But  fresh  forever  as  the  dawn's  new  gold. 

And  in  your  art,  that  follows  down  the  line 
Of  the  world's  noblest,  —  the  most  high,  divine 
Kinship  of  them  who  painted  the  deep  soul,  — 
Glows  a  clear,  individual  attribute; 
Something  whereof  the  praiser  would  be  mute 
Save  that  he  needs  must  tell  the  very  whole 
And  in  his  office  utterly  faithful  be: 
Something  that  means  swift  vision  of  the  truth; 
The  flame  of  life;  the  flush  of  endless  youth; 
A  trait  compounded  all  of  Poesy; 
A  tone  most  exquisite,  illuminate 
With  the  keen  sense  of  Beauty  which  even  art 
Can  lift  above  itself;  a  throbbing  heart; 
An  element  that  sets  the  noonday  beam 
Vibrant  with  tints;  that  makes  the  little,  great; 
And  while  the  artist  would  another  render 
Reveals  his  own  bright  spirit  in  radiant  splendor. 

IN  TIMES   OF   PEACE 

'T  WAS  said :  "  When  roll  of  drum  and  battle's  roar 
Shall  cease  upon  the  earth,  O,  then  no  more 

"  The  deed,  the  race,  of  heroes  in  the  land." 

But  scarce  that  word  was  breathed  when  one  small  hand 

Lifted  victorious  o'er  a  giant  wrong 

That  had  its  victims  crushed  through  ages  long; 


IMPROMPTUS  451 

Some  woman  set  her  pale  and  quivering  face, 
Firm  as  a  rock,  against  a  man's  disgrace; 

A  little  child  suffered  in  silence  lest 

His  savage  pain  should  wound  a  mother's  breast; 

Some  quiet  scholar  flung  his  gauntlet  down 

And  risked,  in  Truth's  great  name,  the  synod's  frown ; 

A  civic  hero,  in  the  calm  realm  of  laws, 

Did  that  which  suddenly  drew  a  world's  applause; 

And  one  to  the  pest  his  lithe  young  body  gave 
That  he  a  thousand  thousand  lives  might  save. 


IMPROMPTUS 

EDWARD    EVERETT    HALE 

PATRIOT,  and  sage,  and  lover  of  his  kind  — 
The  love  he  gives  a  thousandfold  returns: 
His  is  the  wealth  of  love  a  great  heart  earns 
By  giving  all  that  heart  and  soul  and  mind. 

BARDS    OF    BRITAIN    (lQo8) 

THE  poets  silent  and  the  poets  fled? 

Not  till  these  two  that  pluck  the  lyre  are  dead! 

He  of  the  patriot  heart  and  Milton's  line, 

With  soaring  song  and  melody  divine; 

And  he  who  makes  the  old  days  breathe  again, 

Yet  sings  the  hour  that  is,  and  hearts  of  living  men. 

CALVE 

SWEETNESS  and  strength,  high  tragedy  and  mirth; 
And  but  one  Calve  on  the  singing  earth ! 


45 2  IN  HELENA'S  GARDEN 

IN   A    CONCERT   ROOM 

Two  streams  of  music  beat  upon  my  heart  — 
That  which  now  is;  that  which  was  silent  long: 

Sacred  this  temple  of  a  deathless  art, 

Whose  very  walls  thrill  with  remembered  song. 

THE    LONESOME    WILD 

LOVELIER,  lovelier  this  place 

Since  here  she  brought  her  maiden  grace; 

Dearer  far  this  lonesome  wild 

Since  here  she  wandered,  here  she  smiled. 

NEW   FRIENDS    AND    OLD 

How  wonderful  and  sweet 
New  friends,  as  if  forever  known,  to  greet! 
The  warm,  new,  kindred  touch;  the  dear  surprise 
To  find  an  answer  in  new  dawning  eyes. 
But  when  old  friends  draw  nearer  — 

0  dearer,  dearer! 

SHADOW   AND    SUN 

1  LOOKED  from  the  window  with  hungry  eyes 
On  the  day  long  longed  for,  that  must  be  bright : 
(That  day  of  days,  of  the  long,  long  night !) 
When,  O  dear  Shadow!  by  thy  divining 

I  knew  that  the  morn  was  bright: 

I  knew  by  the  shadow  the  sun  was  shining. 

A  NAVAL  SURGEON  OF  THE  WAR  FOR  THE  UNION 

HERE  was  as  loyal  soul  as  ever  drew 

The  breath  of  battle,  and  the  air  of  home: 
He  duty  followed,  lonely  and  far  to  roam; 

To  country,  kindred,  God,  forever  true. 


SONG  453 

A  MOTHER'S  PICTURE 
SWEET  dignity  and  tenderness  and  grace, 
Devotion,  and  the  power  to  draw  the  heart: 
This  her  inheritance,  her  dower,  her  art; 
All  these  are  radiant  in  that  mother  face. 

ON   A    YOUNG    HERO 

Too  soon  ?  But  heroes  always  die  too  soon ! 

This,  this  it  is  that  makes  them  dear  and  great. 
Grant  us,  O  kindly  Heaven,  the  supreme  boon 

To  give  our  lives  too  soon  —  not  die  too  late ! 

A  HERO'S  BRIDE 

WHAT  tragic  loss!  but,  O,  what  gain  sublime, 
What  golden  memory,  life-enduring  pride. 

What  shall  it  matter,  brief  or  long  the  time  ? 
Love  of  a  noble  soul  —  a  hero's  bride. 

TO   ONE   WHO    PRAISED    "THE    GAY    LIFE" 

GAY  !  —  as  the  hot  crater's  crust  all  lightning-lit  — 
But  one  tread  more,  and  horror  of  the  pit ! 
Gay!   Yes,  for  a  moment,  and  then  weeping  sorrow, 
With  wild  remorse  to  meet  the  dawning  morrow. 

LYRIC    LIVES 

THERE  are  more  poets  than  the  rhyming  race; 
Souls  beautiful  of  thought,  and  full  of  grace; 
The  spirit  of  poetry  in  them  breathes  and  thrives; 
They  write  not  poems,  but  lead  lyric  lives. 

SONG 

A  LITTLE  longer  still  in  summer  suns, 
On  wintry  nights,  and  where  the  wild  brook  runs, 
To  rest  or  wander; 


454  IN  HELENA'S  GARDEN 

A  little  longer  left  for  human  joy; 
To  win  and  lose,  —  man's  masterful  employ,  — 
To  dream  and  ponder. 

A  little  longer!   But,  O,  sweeter  this 
Than  any  lesser  grace  or  lowlier  bliss 

In  earth's  wide  blindness: 
A  little  longer  left  for  lifting  hearts, 
Healing  hurt  souls,  for  earth's  most  heavenly  arts 

For  love  and  kindness. 


THE  SINGING  RIVER 
i 

I  read  the  poet's  verses  by  the  stream 
Where  late  with  him  I  walked;  the  twilight  gleam 
Faded,  the  page  darkened,  and  from  the  sky 
The  day,  withdrawing  gradual,  came  to  die 
Slowly,  into  a  memory  and  a  sigh. 

n 

There  as  I  read,  the  poet's  lyric  dream 
Mixt  with  the  silvery  clamor  of  the  stream, 
And,  tho'  the  night  fell,  and  I  read  no  more, 
Still  on  and  on  the  mingled  measures  pour: 
"  Beauty  is  one,"  they  murmur  o'er  and  o'er. 

THE  SOLACE  OF  THE  SKIES 

WHEN  fell  the  first  great  sorrow  of  my  life,  — 

He  dying  from  whom  my  mortal  frame  was  drawn, 
Into  the  night  I  fled,  long  ere  the  dawn, 
Succor  to  bring  for  her,  the  stricken  wife. 


THE   WINDING   PATH  455 

Then  first  I  knew  the  solace  of  the  skies, 
And  that  mysterious  mingling  of  the  soul 
With  the  still  beauty  of  the  infinite  whole; 
My  heart  was  melted,  and  grew  strangely  wise. 

I  was  a  child  then,  having  little  lore 

Taken  from  books,  or  the  wide  world  of  men, 
But  something  suddenly  through  my  soul  did  pour 

Beyond  all  thought,  all  dream,  all  hope;  since  then 
Nor  Death,  nor  Life,  has  been  the  same  to  me: 
Can  grief  the  spirit  kill,  once  touched  by  deity? 

THE  WINDING  PATH 

THE  winding  path 

Come  let  us  follow 

Along  the  lane 

And  down  by  the  hollow; 

For  I  would  fain 

The  way  it  passes,  — 

Through  the  long  grasses, 

The  meadows,  the  woods,  — 

Seek  and  learn  it: 

What  the  moods, 

What  true  uses 

Lead  and  turn  it, 

What  abuses 

Break  it,  cloak  it, 

Twist  it,  choke  it. 

Now  't  is  a  span; 
But  onward  still, 
Over  the  hill 
It  wider  grows, 
It  firmer  flows. 
The  subtle  path 


456  IN  HELENA'S  GARDEN 

Its  own  thought  hath; 
It  is  more  wise 
Than  you  or  I; 
As  if  with  eyes 
That  peer  and  try, 
It  feels  its  way 
Across  the  day. 

What  little  feet 
Hard  have  packed  it! 
What  great  hoofs 
Gouged  and  wracked  it! 
Rude  water-courses 
Cut  across  it, 
Rocks  emboss  it; 
A  lichened  cliff 
Its  route  enforces. 
Yet  on  it  goes, 
And  upward  flows 
Through  the  dark  pines 
In  wayward  lines; 
Past  the  birches 
Skyward  it  lurches: 
One  more  flight  — 
And  on  the  hight 
At  last  we  stand, 
And  catch  the  vision 
Of  sky  and  land. 

"WHAT  MAKES  THE  GARDEN  GROW" 

WHAT  makes  the  garden  grow 

In  beauty  and  delight  — 

A  place  to  linger  in  by  day  or  night, 

But  chiefly  when  the  long  and  level  light 


IF,  ONE    GREAT    DAY  457 

Makes  shadows  that  still  glow 

With  burning  blossoms — the  heart's  home 

Wherefrom  our  charmed  feet  reluctant  roam. 

Not  pride,  nor  envy,  nor  crude  wealth 

Can  bring  the  drooping  roses  health, 

Nor  lift  the  sanguine  poppies,  row  on  row, 

Nor  from  their  bed  of  green 

Make  every  iris  spread  it  like  a  queen; 

While  all  along  the  wall 

The  jeweled  colors  call. 

O,  not  from  these  can  come  the  art 

That  touches  the  deep  heart, 

That  makes  the  small  blades  shove 

Through  the  soft  earth  into  a  pictured  balm  above: 

Not  sordid  thoughts  and  low 

Can  make  the  garden  grow 

In  beauty  and  delight, 

A  place  to  linger  in  by  day  or  night  — 

Not  these,  not  these,  but  love. 

"IF,   ONE   GREAT  DAY" 

IF,  one  great  day,  the  God  I  see 

Aflame  in  blade  and  bush  and  tree, 

In  the  white  dawn  and  passing  sun  — 

Shall  I  not  joy  in  that  clear  sight 

And  tell  in  song  my  strange  delight, 

Tho'  come  a  day  when  mist  and  cloud 

Shall  the  celestial  presence  shroud? 

O,  shall  I  not  be  bold, 

And  cry,  "Behold!" 

Tho'  swift  the  vision  darkens  and  is  done? 


458  IN  HELENA'S  GARDEN 

MUSIC   BENEATH  THE   STARS 

Music  beneath  the  Stars!  remembering  him 
Who  music  loved,  and  who  on-  such  a  night 
Had,  through  white  paths  celestial,  winged  his  flight, 
Hearing  the  chanting  of  the  cherubim  — 

Which  even  our  ears  seem  now  to  apprehend, 
Rising  and  falling  in  waves  of  splendid  sound 
That  bear  our  grieving  spirits  from  the  ground 
And  with  eternal  things  lift  them  and  blend. 

Now  Bach's  great  Aria  charms  the  starlit  dark; 
Now  soars  the  Largo,  high  angelical, 
Soothing  all  mortal  sorrow  on  that  breath; 

And  now,  O  sweet  and  sovereign  strain!  now  hark 
Of  mighty  Beethoven  the  rise  and  fall. 
Such  music  'neath  the  stars  abolished  death. 

THE  BIRDS   OF  WESTLAND 

PRINCETON,     JUNE,    1908 

O  BIRDS  of  Westland,  singing  on 

As  blithely  as  of  yore ! 
Do  ye  not  know  how  deep  he  sleeps 

Behind  yon  closed  door? 

Do  ye  not  know  that  he  who  hailed 

Your  music,  dawn  by  dawn, 
Hath,  since  he  barkened  yesterday, 

From  hearing  been  withdrawn? 

O  happy  birds!   I  think  ye  know 

He  loved  your  joyful  song, 
And  therefore  in  the  growing  light 

Ye  carol  loud  and  long. 


THE   VEIL   OF   STARS  459 

O  birds!  ye  know  he  would  not  wish 

To  hush  that  singing  sweet, 
Tho'  since  he  heard  your  music  last 

That  great  heart  ceased  to  beat. 


THE  VEIL   OF  STARS 

O  VEIL  of  stars !   O   dread  magnificence ! 
Not  unto  man,  O,  not  to  man  is  given 
The  power  to  grasp  with  human  sight  and  sense 
Him,  clothed  upon  by  all  the  stars  of  heaven 

And  thou,  O  infinite  littleness!  not  more 
Doth  infinite  distance  and  immensity 
That  Presence  veil,  whom  fain  we  would  adore, 
If  mortals  might  the  immortal  dimly  see. 

Atoms  and  stars  alike  the  Eternal  hide, 
Nor  know  we  if  in  light  or  darkness  dwells 
The  Ever  Living !   No  voice  from  out  the  wide 

Intense  of  starlight  the  great  secret  tells; 
No  word  or  sign  in  earth  or  skies  above, 
Save  one  —  the  godhead  in  the  eyes  of  love. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST  LINES 

A  barren  stretch  that  slants  to  the  salt  sea's  gray,  5. 

A  century's  summer  breezes  shook,  122. 

A  little  English  earth  and  breathed  air,  157. 

A  little  longer  still  in  summer  suns,  453. 

A  little,  loosened  leaf  of  painted  paper,  447. 

A  maiden  sought  her  love  in  a  dark  room,  88. 

A  melancholy,  life  o'er-wearied  man,  335. 

A  night  of  stars  and  dreams,  of  dreams  and  sleep,  24. 

A  power  there  is  that  trembles  through  the  earth,  256. 

A  sense  of  pureness  in  the  air,  314. 

A  song  for  you,  my  darling,  277. 

A  song  of  the  maiden  morn,  20. 

A  soul  inhuman?   No,  but  human  all,  164. 

A  Sower  went  forth  to  sow,  27. 

A  stranger  in  a  far  and  ancient  land,  250. 

A  violet  lay  in  the  grass,  78. 

"A  weary  waste  without  her?'*  Ah,  but  think,  398. 

A  white  lie,  even  as  the  black,  I  learned  to  hate,  370. 

A  woman,  who  has  been  a  man's  desire,  403. 

A  wondrous  song,  333. 

A  word  said  in  the  dark,  87. 

After  sorrow's  night,  91. 

Agnostic!   Ah,  what  idle  name  for  him,  398. 

Ah,  be  not  false,  sweet  Splendor!  223. 

Ah,  loving,  exquisite,  enraptured  soul,  393. 

Ah,  near,  dear  friend  of  many  and  many  years  !  328. 

Ah,  no!  that  sacred  land,  239. 

Ah,  Time,  go  not  so  soon,  153. 

Alas,  poor,  fated,  passionate,  shivering  thing!  278. 

All  mouth,  no  mind:  a  mindless  mouth  in  sooth,  303. 

All  round  the  glimmering  circuit  of  the  isle,  274. 

All  summer  long  the  people  knelt,  113. 

An  old,  blind  poet,  sitting  sad  and  lone,  336. 

And  can  it  be?  373. 

"And  this,  then,  is  thy  love,"  I  hear  thee  say,  n. 

And  were  that  best,  Love,  dreamless,  endless  sleep!  9. 

Angelo,  thou  art  the  master;  for  thou  in  thy  art,  249. 

As  doth  the  bird,  on  outstretched  pinions,  dare,  175. 

As  down  the  city  street,  145. 

As  I  hobble,  old  and  halt,  345. 

As  melting  snow  leaves  bare  the  mountain-side,  29. 

As  soars  the  eagle,  intimate  of  light,  266. 

As  the  long  day  of  cloud  and  storm  and  sun,  64. 

At  the  dim  end  of  day,  328. 


462 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


"Back  from  the  darkness  to  the  light  again!"  94. 

Back  to  my  body  came  I  in  the  gray  of  the  dawning,  266. 

Back  to  the  old  place  I've  come  home  again,  412. 

Battling,  through  trackless  lands,  'gainst  savage  foes,  341. 

Because  Heaven's  cost  is  Hell,  and  perfect  joy,  52. 

Because  the  rose  must  fade,  231. 

Before  the  listening  world  behold  him  stand,  33. 

Behold  our  first  great  warrior  of  the  sea,  391. 

Behold  these  maidens  in  a  row,  156. 

Beneath  a  stone  wrenched  from  Egyptian  sands,  421. 

Beneath  the  deep  and  solemn  midnight  sky,  63. 

Beyond  all  beauty  is  the  unknown  grace,  78. 

Beyond  the  branches  of  the  pine,  64. 

Brother  of  sorrow  and  mortality!  69. 

But,  friend  of  mine,  —  and  his,  —  I  am  afraid!  308. 

But  then  the  sunset  smiled,  90. 

But  yesterday  a  world  of  haze,  327. 

By  this  road  have  past,  258. 

By  this  stairway  narrow,  steep,  212. 

Call  him  not  blind,  278. 

Call  me  not  dead  when  I,  indeed,  have  gone,  66. 

Came  to  a  master  of  song,  225. 

Cast  into  the  pit,  175. 

Caught  in  the  golden  net  of  the  poet's  song,  444. 

Chide  not  the  poet  that  he  strives  for  beauty,  377. 

Come,  soldiers,  arouse  ye!  116. 

Come,  Spirit  of  Song!  true,  faithful  friend  of  mine!  HZ. 

Come  to  me  ye  who  suffer,  for  to  all,  8. 

Comrades,  the  circle  narrows,  heads  grow  white,  193. 

Dark  Southern  girl!  the  dream-like  day  is  past,  347. 

Dear  bard  and  prophet,  that  thy  rest  is  deep,  392. 

Dear  friend,  who  lovedst  well  this  pleasant  life '  67. 

Dear  heart,  I  would  that  after  many  days,  35. 

Death  is  a  sorry  plight,  224. 

Deep  in  the  ocean  of  night,  148. 

Despise  not  thou  thy  father's  ancient  creed,  54. 

"Do  you  love  me?"  Elsie  asked,  222. 

Done  is  the  day  of  care,  217. 

Down  in  the  meadow  and  up  on  the  hight,  221. 

Each  moment  holy  is,  for  out  from  God,  66. 

Each  New  Year  is  a  leaf  of  our  love's  rose,  228. 

Each  of  us  answers  to  a  call,  125. 

Each  picture  was  a  painted  memory,  260. 

Edmund,  in  this  book  you'll  find,  138. 

Enchanted  city,  O  farewell,  farewell !  348. 

Enraptured  memory,  and  all  ye  powers  of  being,  202. 

Erewhile  I  sang  the  praise  of  them  whose  lustrous  names,  161, 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES  463 


Even  when  joy  is  near,  265. 

Ever  when  slept  the  poet  his  dreams  were  music,  399. 

Face  once  the  thought:  This  piled  up  sky  of  cloud,  174. 

Fades  the  rose;  the  year  grows  old,  232. 

Fame  is  an  honest  thing,  209. 

Fixt  in  one  desire,  267. 

Fly,  thistle-down,  fly,  21. 

Following  the  sun,  westward  the  march  of  power!  125. 

Four-walled  is  my  tower,  280. 

Friend,  why  goest  thou  forth,  106. 

Friends,  beware!  334. 

From  every  motion,  every  lovely  line,  420. 

From  love  to  love  she  passes  on  this  day,  420. 

From  the  happy  first  time,  346. 

From  the  shade  of  the  elms  that  murmured  above  thy  birth,  205. 

Gay!  —  as  the  hot  crater's  crust  all  lightning-lit,  453. 

Gentle  and  generous,  brave-hearted,  kind,  310. 

''Give  me  a  theme,"  the  little  poet  cried,  126. 

Give  thy  day  to  Duty,  350. 

Glorious  that  ancient  art!  212. 

Glory  and  honor  and  fame  and  everlasting  laudation,  160. 

God  of  the  strong,  God  of  the  weak,  356. 

Grace,  majesty,  and  the  calm  bliss  of  life,  145. 

Great  God,  to  whom  since  time  began,  57. 

Great  nature  is  an  army  gay,  170. 

Great  Universe  —  what  dost  thou  with  thy  dead!  68. 

Greece  was;  Greece  is  no  more,  201. 

He  fails  who  climbs  to  power  and  place,  163. 

He  is  gone!   We  shall  not  see  again,  139. 

He  knows  not  the  path  of  duty,  37. 

He  of  the  ocean  is,  its  thunderous  waves,  210. 

He  pondered  well,  looked  in  his  heart,  337. 

He  sang  the  rose,  he  praised  its  fragrant  breath,  335. 

He  speaks  not  well  who  doth  his  time  deplore,  270. 

He  the  great  World-Musician  at  whose  stroke,  49. 

He  who  hath  the  sacred  fire,  367. 

Henceforth  before  these  feet,  227. 

Her  delicate  form,  her  night  of  hair,  345. 

Her  voice  was  like  the  song  of  birds,  218. 

Here,  by  the  great  waters,  315. 

Here  for  the  world  to  see  men  brought  their  fairest,  204. 

Here  rests  the  heart  whose  throbbing  shook  the  earth!  298. 

Here  stays  the  house,  here  stay  the  selfsame  places,  100. 

Here  was  as  loyal  soul  as  ever  drew,  452. 

His  life  was  generous  as  his  life  was  long,  347. 

His  was  the  love  of  art  and  song,  300. 

Home  of  my  forebears,  home  of  my  dreaming  childhood,  409. 

How  curves  the  little  river,  through  Glen  Gilder,  O  Glen  Gilder,  417. 


464 


INDEX   OF   FIRST  LINES 


How  easily  my  neighbor  chants  his  creed,  180. 

How  strange  the  musician's  memory,  never  wrong,  390. 

How  strange  to  look  upon  the  life  beyond,  230. 

How  to  the  singer  comes  the  song?  253. 

How  wonderful  and  sweet,  452. 

I  am  a  woman  —  therefore  I  may  not,  98. 

I  am  the  spirit  of  the  morning  sea,  73. 

I  asked  me:  what  in  all  the  world  so  odd,  421. 

I  asked  you  to  read  my  poem,  so  shameless  was  I,  420. 

I  awoke  in  the  morning  not  knowing,  445. 

I  called  you  once  to  the  sea,  325. 

I  came  to  a  great  city.   Palaces,  298. 

I  care  not  if  the  skies  are  white,  147. 

I  count  my  time  by  times  that  I  meet  thee,  32. 

I  dreamed  a  rose;  it  bloomed,  440. 

I  dreamed  a  tender  and  mysterious  dream,  419. 

I  flung  a  stone  into  a  grassy  field,  94. 

I  give  this  token  to  the  son  of  him,  349. 

I  heard  the  bells  of  Bethlehem  ring,  243. 

I  knew  the  Rucellai  had  choice  of  villas,  295. 

I  know  a  girl  —  she  is  a  poet's  daughter,  123. 

"I  know,"  he  said,  no. 

I  know  not  if  I  love  her  overmuch,  4. 

I  know  thou  art  not  that  brown  mountain-side,  22. 

I  like  her  gentle  hand  that  sometimes  strays,  4. 

I  like  your  book,  my  boy,  133. 

I  looked  from  the  window  with  hungry  eyes,  452. 

I  love  her  gentle  forehead,  19. 

I  met  a  traveler  on  the  road,  7. 

I  pray  thee,  dear,  think  not  alone  of  me,  23. 

I  read  that,  in  his  sleep,  the  poet  died,  332. 

I  read  the  poet's  verses  by  the  stream,  454. 

I  remember,  307. 

I  sat  in  the  crowded  theater.   The  first  notes,  120. 

I  saw  not  the  leaf,  223. 

I  see  it  all;  my  soul  the  dregs  hath  drunk,  369. 

I  thought  I  knew  the  mountain's  every  mood,  150. 

I  thought  in  Egypt,  Death  was  more  than  Life,  299. 

I  thought  in  Syria,  Life  was  more  than  Death,  300. 

I  thought  this  day  to  bring  to  thee,  24. 

I  will  be  brave  for  thee,  dear  heart;  for  thee,  14. 

I  would  that  in  the  verse  she  loved  some  word,  140. 

I  would  that  my  words  were  as  my  fingers,  20. 

If  ever  flashed  upon  this  mortal  scene,  215. 

If  Jesus  Christ  is  a  man,  53. 

If,  lest  thy  heart  betray  thee,  305. 

If,  one  great  day,  the  God  I  see  457. 

If  songs  were  perfume,  color,  wild  desire,  210. 

If  you  wish,  go  be  a  pig,  421. 

In  a  far,  lonely  land  at  last  I  came,  401. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST  LINES  465 

In  a  little  theater,  in  the  Jewry  of  the  New  World,  406. 

In  a  night  of  midsummer,  on  the  still  eastern  shore,  390. 

In  a  starry  night  of  June,  before  the  moon  had  come,  286. 

In  darkness  of  the  visionary  night,  55. 

In  Heaven's  happy  bowers,  96. 

In  her  young  eyes  the  children  looked  and  found,  153. 

In  life's  hard  fight  this  poet  did  his  part,  333. 

In  Love  of  City  here  we  take  our  stand,  349. 

In  one  rich  drop  of  blood,  ah,  what  a  sea,  273. 

In  that  dread,  dreamed-of  hour,  233. 

In  the  child-garden  buds  and  blows,  216. 

In  the  cities  no  longer  the  blaring  of  trumpets  that  summon  to  battle,  404. 

In  the  embers  shining  bright,  93. 

In  the  hall  of  the  king  the  loud  mocking  of  many  at  one,  45. 

In  the  House  of  State  at  Albany,  402. 

In  the  long  studio  from  whose  towering  walls,  no. 

In  the  morning  of  the  skies,  132. 

In  the  old  farm-house  living-room,  285. 

In  the  white  midday's  full,  imperious  show,  185. 

In  thine  anger  it  was  said,  401. 

In  this  high  ode  with  its  great  shadow-kings,  344. 

In  this  valley  far  and  lonely,  255. 

In  those  clear,  piercing,  piteous  eyes  behold,  357. 

In  Wordsworth's  orchard,  one  sweet  summer  day,  293. 

In  youth  he  braved  a  monarch's  ire,  392. 

Into  this  musing,  Memory!  thou  hast  brought,  306. 

Is  Hope  a  phantom  ?   Holds  the  crystal  cup,  305. 

Is  't  I  for  whom  the  law's  brute  penalty,  172. 

Is  this  the  price  of  beauty!    Fairest,  thou,  167. 

It  was  but  yesterday  she  walked  these  streets,  394. 

John  Carman  of  Carmeltown,  103. 
Keep  pure  thy  soul!  229. 

Land  of  the  South,  —  whose  stricken  heart  and  brow,  114. 

Laureate  of  the  Gentle  Heart!  309. 

Let  fall  the  ruin  propt  by  Europe's  hands!  246. 

Let  not  thy  listening  spirit  be  abashed,  378. 

Let  other  gray-beards  mourn  the  flight  of  years,  420. 

Life  came  to  me  and  spoke,  151. 

Life  is  the  cost,  171. 

Life  is  the  hammer  that  strikes,  344. 

Lightnings  and  tremblings  and  a  voice  of  thunder,  389. 

Like  the  bright  picture  ere  the  lamp  is  lit,  254. 

Lisa  Romana!  no  mean  city  gave,  309. 

Lo!  here  another,  263. 

Lo,  now  it  comes  once  more;  lo,  my  heart  leaps  again,  317. 

Lonely  Pope  upon  his  throne,  296. 

"Lost  leaders"  —  no,  they  are  not  lost,  397. 

Love  is  not  bond  to  any  man,  37. 


466  INDEX  OF   FIRST    LINES 

Love,  Love,  my  love,  30. 

Love  me  not,  Love,  for  that  I  first  loved  thee,  14. 

Lovelier,  lovelier  this  place,  452. 

Love's  look  finds  loveliness  in  all  the  woild,  254. 

Many  the  names,  the  souls,  the  faces  dear,  310. 

Many  the  songs  of  power  the  poet  wrought,  129. 

Maria  mia!  all  in  white,  418. 

Me  mystic?   Have  your  way!  257. 

Men  grow  old  before  their  time,  137. 

Midway  the  valley,  fronting  the  flusht  morn,  437. 

Mother  and  Child!   There  is  no  holier  sight,  330. 

Mother  of  heroes,  she  —  of  them  who  gave,  331. 

Mountains  and  valleys!  dear  ye  are  to  me,  259. 

Mountains  in  whose  vast  shadows  live  great  names,  391. 

Mourn  for  his  death,  but  for  his  life  rejoice,  332. 

Music  beneath  the  Stars!  remembering  him,  458. 

My  chimney  is  builded,  82. 

My  love  for  thee  doth  march  like  armed  men,  12. 

My  love  grew  with  the  growing  night,  23. 

My  songs  are  all  of  thee,  what  tho'  I  sing,  35. 

Myriads  of  souls  from  out  the  unknown  vast,  448. 

Navies  nor  armies  can  exalt  the  state,  164. 

Nine  years  to  heaven  had  flown,  93. 

No  bugle  on  the  blast,  207. 

No  heavenly  maid  we  here  behold,  52. 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  262. 

No  song-bird,  singing,  soaring,  285. 

No  verses  I  can  bring  her,  345. 

Not  alone  in  pain  and  gloom,  174. 

Not  from  the  whole  wide  world  I  chose  thee,  31. 

Not  here,  but  somewhere,  so  men  say,  262. 

Not  his  to  guide  the  ship  while  tempests  blow,  118. 

Not  ignoble  are  the  days  of,  315. 

Not  wreaths  alone,  for  him  who  wins  the  fight,  349. 

Not  yet  the  orchard  lifted,  75. 

November  winds,  blow  mild,  92. 

Now  is  the  city  great!   That  deep-voiced  bell,  269. 

Now  who  can  take  from  us  what  we  have  known,  62. 

Now  you  who  rhyme,  and  I  who  rhyme,  141. 

O  birds  of  Westland,  singing  on,  458. 

O,  dear  is  the  song  of  the  pine,  220. 

O  ease  my  heart,  sad  song,  O  ease  my  heart!  213. 

O,  father  's  gone  to  market-town,  he  was  up  before  the  day,  76. 

O  gates  of  ice!  long  have  ye  held  our  loved  ones,  107. 

O,  give  me  music  in  the  twilight  hour!  384. 

O  glorious  Sabbath  sun,  thou  art,  307. 

O  highest,  strongest,  sweetest  woman-soul!  36. 

O,  how  shall  I  help  to  right  the  world  that  is  going  wrong!  112. 


INDEX  OF   FIRST  LINES  467 

O  kindred  stars,  wherethrough  his  soul  in  flight,  424. 

O,  love  is  not  a  summer  mood,  36. 

O  majesty  and  loveliness  in  one!  297. 

O  man  of  light  and  lore!  177. 

O  man  with  your  rule  and  measure,  131. 

O  mighty  river,  triumphing  to  the  sea,  34. 

O  purer  far  than  ever  I,  445. 

O  strange  Spring  days,  when  from  the  shivering  ground,  32. 

O  sweet  wild  roses  that  bud  and  blow,  22. 

O,  that  was  the  year  the  last  of  those  before  thee,  235. 

O  thou  my  Love,  love  first  my  lonely  soul !  15. 

O  thou  whom  Virgil  and  thy  Beatrice,  281. 

O  veil  of  stars !    O  dread  magnificence !  459. 

O  white  and  midnight  sky!    O  starry  bath!  41. 

O,  whither  has  she  fled  from  out  the  dawning  and  the  day?  440. 

Of  a  dream  I  would  sing  and  a  river  I  saw  in  a  dream,  437. 

Of  all  earth's  shrines  this  is  the  mightiest,  247. 

Of  his  dear  Lord  he  painted  all  the  life,  297. 

Of  life,  of  death  the  mystery  and  woe,  145. 

Of  my  fair  lady's  lovers  there  were  two,  87. 

Of  other  men  I  know  no  jealousy,  16. 

On  that  old  faith  I  will  take  hold  once  more,  369. 

On  the  day  that  Christ  ascended,  242. 

On  the  sad  winter  trees,  232. 

On  the  sun-dial  in  the  garden,  434. 

On  the  wild  rose  tree,  77. 

On  this  day  Browning  died?  158. 

On  this  great  day  a  child  of  time  and  fate,  341. 

Once,  looking  from  a  window  on  a  land,  58. 

Once  only,  Love,  may  love's  sweet  song  be  sung,  17. 

Once  wandering  far  in  Asia,  lo,  we  came,  340. 

Once  when  a  maiden  maidenly  went  by,  31. 

Once  when  we  walked  within  a  summer  field,  18. 

One  by  one  the  flowers  of  the  garden,  436. 

One  day  the  poet's  harp  lay  on  the  ground,  43. 

One  deed  may  mar  a  life,  230. 

One  rose  of  song,  396. 

One  Sabbath  eve,  betwixt  green  Avon's  banks,  292. 

One  singer  in  the  oratorio,  387. 

One  who  this  valley  passionately  loved,  323. 

Over  the  roofs  of  the  houses  I  hear  the  barking  of  Leo,  154. 

Passion  is  a  wayward  child,  155. 

Patriot,  and  sage,  and  lover  of  his  kind,  451- 

"Pity  the  blind!"  Yes,  pity  those,  400. 

Queens  have  there  been  of  many  a  fair  domain,  280. 
Quietly,  like  a  child,  158. 

Rejoice!  Rejoice!  388. 

Relentless  Time,  that  gives  both  harsh  and  kind,  374. 


468 


INDEX  OF   FIRST   LINES 


Rhymes  and  writers  of  our  day,  293. 

Rich  is  the  music  of  sweet  instruments,  387. 

Rock's  the  song-soil,  truly,  215. 

Rose  of  the  world,  189. 

Rose-dark  the  solemn  sunset,  234. 

Said  the  Poet  unto  the  Seer,  41. 

Shade  of  our  greatest,  O  look  down  to-day!  163. 

She  lives  in  light,  not  shadow,  278. 

She  saw  the  bayonets  flashing  in  the  sun,  114. 

Silent,  silent  are  the  unreturning !  235. 

Since  ancient  Time  began,  208. 

Sir  Knight,  thou  lovest  not,  305. 

Slowly  to  the  day  the  rose,  361. 

So  fair,  so  pure  my  lady  as  she  doth  go,  134. 

So  fierce  the  buffets  of  untimely  fate,  339. 

Some  element  from  nature  seems  withdrawn,  351. 

Some  from  books  resound  their  rhymes,  226. 

Something  missing  from  the  garden  ?  434. 

Something  there  is  in  Death  not  all  unkind,  136. 

Souls  live  for  whom  the  illimitable  sands,  299. 

Sow  thou  sorrow  and  thou  shalt  reap  it,  174. 

Speed,  speed,  speed,  261. 

Star-dust  and  vaporous  light,  244. 

Stay  as  the  tree  —  go  as  the  wind,  307. 

Straight  soars  to  heaven  the  white  magnificence,  342. 

Strolling  toward  Shottery  on  one  showery  day,  291. 

Such  pictures  of  the  heavens  were  never  seen,  368. 

Summer's  rain  and  winter's  snow,  33. 

Sweet  dignity  and  tenderness  and  grace,  453. 

Sweet  Grecian  girl  who  on  the  sunbright  wall,  156. 

Sweet  mouth,  dark  eyes,  deep  heart,  149. 

Sweet  rose  that  bloomed  on  the  red  field  of  war,  125. 

Sweetness  and  strength,  high  tragedy  and  mirth,  451. 

Tell  me  what  is  this  innumerable  throng,  49. 

Tell  you  the  news,  288. 

That  I  should  love  thee  seemeth  meet  and  wise,  30. 

The  Angel  of  Life  stood  forth  on  the  threshold  of  Birth,  379. 

The  birds  were  singing,  the  skies  were  gay,  21. 

The  bright  sun  has  been  hid  so  long,  291. 

The  cloud  was  thick  that  hid  the  sun  from  sight,  II. 

The  clouds  upon  the  mountains  rest,  327. 

The  critic  scanned  the  poet's  book,  344. 

The  day  began  as  other  days  begin,  380. 

The  days  were  cold,  and  clouded.   On  a  day,  199. 

The  evening  star  trembles  and  hides  from  him,  67. 

The  garden  still  is  green,  436. 

The  gray  walls  of  the  garden,  431. 

The  leaves  are  dark  and  large,  Love,  154. 

The  man  of  brains,  of  fair  repute,  and  birth,  303. 


INDEX  OF   FIRST   LINES  469 

The  marble  pool,  like  the  great  sea,  hath  moods,  432. 

The  mountain  that  the  morn  doth  kiss,  60. 

The  night  was  black  and  drear,  99. 

The  night  was  dark,  tho'  sometimes  a  faint  star,  3. 

The  North  Star  draws  the  hero;  he  abides,  268. 

The  pallid  watcher  of  the  eastern  skies,  12. 

The  poet  died  last  night,  136. 

The  poet  from  his  own  sorrow,  169. 

The  poet's  day  is  different  from  another,  253. 

The  poets  silent  and  the  poets  fled?  451. 

The  purple  of  the  summer  fields,  the  dark,  150. 

The  secret  —  he  has  learned  it,  380. 

The  sky  is  dark,  and  dark  the  bay  below,  92. 

The  smile  of  her  I  love  is  like  the  dawn,  25. 

The  speech  that  day  doth  utter,  and  the  night,  61. 

The  spirit  of  adventure  is,  316. 

The  sun  rose  swift  and  sent  a  golden  gleam,  6. 

The  White  Czar's  people  cry,  164. 

The  wind  from  out  the  west  is  blowing,  89. 

The  winding  path,  455. 

The  window's  white,  the  candle's  red,  149. 

The  winds  of  morning  move  and  sing,  89. 

The  years  are  angels  that  bring  down  from  Heaven,  153. 

There  are  four  sisters  known  to  mortals  well,  120. 

There  are  more  poets  than  the  rhyming  race,  453. 

There  at  the  chasm's  edge  behold  her  lean,  215. 

There  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun,  10. 

There  was  a  field  green  and  fragrant  with  grass,  7. 

These  are  the  sounds  that  I  heard  at  the  home  in  "The  Pines,"  348. 

They  said,  "God  made  him,"  ah,  the  clean,  great  God!  400. 

They  said  that  all  the  troubadours  had  flown,  135. 

They  who  love  the  poets,  421. 

This  actor  in  great  Shakespeare's  shadow  moved,  394. 

This  bronze  doth  keep  the  very  form  and  mold,  117. 

This  day,  a  strange  and  beautiful  word  was  spoken,  275. 

This  day  I  heard  such  music  that  I  thought,  128. 

This  day  I  read  in  the  sad  scholar's  page,  269. 

This  hour  my  heart  went  forth,  as  in  old  days,  264. 

This  is  an  island  of  the  golden  Past,  245. 

This  is  her  picture  painted  ere  mine  eyes,  6. 

This  is  my  creed,  168. 

This  is  not  Death,  nor  Sorrow,  nor  sad  Hope,  209. 

This  is  the  earth  he  walked  on;  not  alone,  53. 

This  is  the  end  of  the  town  that  I  love  the  best,  219. 

This  is  the  eternal  mystery  of  art,  388. 

This  is  the  flower  of  thought,  124. 

This  is  the  house  she  was  born  in,  full  four-score  years  ago,  101. 

This  man  loved  Lincoln,  him  did  Lincoln  love,  310. 

This  night  the  enchanting  musicians  rendered  a  trio  of  Beethoven,  330. 

This  night,  when  I  blew  out  my  candle  flame,  419. 

This  timeless  river  —  oldest  of  all  time,  340. 


470  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

This  watery  vague  how  vast!   This  misty  globe,  219. 

Tho'  summer  days  are  all  too  fleet,  260. 

Thou  art  not  fit  to  die  ?  —  Why  not  ?  173. 

Thou  art  so  used,  Love,  to  thine  own  bird's  song,  17. 

Thou  Christ,  my  soul  is  hurt  and  bruised!  245. 

Thou  grim  and  haggard  wanderer,  who  dost  look.  54. 

Thou  thinkest  thou  hast  lived,  338. 

Thou  who  lov'st  and  art  forsaken,  106. 

Thou  who  wouldst  serve  thy  country  and  thy  kind,  400. 

Three  blossoms  in  a  happy  garden  grow,  435. 

Three  messengers  to  me  from  heaven  came,  61. 

Thrice  is  sweet  music  sweet  when  every  word,  346. 

Through  all  the  cunning  ages,  272. 

Through  love  to  light!  O,  wonderful  the  way,  38. 

Through  starry  space  two  angels  dreamed  their  flight,  224. 

Through  the  garden  sunset-window,  431. 

Thunder  in  the  north  sky,  148. 

Thus  did  he  speak,  thus  was  he  comforted,  336. 

Thy  lover,  Love,  would  have  some  nobler  way,  16. 

Thy  mind  is  like  a  crystal  brook,  229. 

*T  is  night  upon  the  lake.    Our  bed  of  boughs,  59. 

*T  is  twelve  o'  the  clock,  146. 

To-day  I  saw  the  picture  of  a  man,  5. 

To-night  the  music  doth  a  burden  bear,  150. 

To  rest  from  weary  work  one  day  of  seven,  55. 

To  see  the  rose  of  morning  slow  unfold,  229. 

To  send  fit  thanks,  I  would  I  had  the  art,  350. 

To  the  ancient  races  of,  318. 

To  Thee,  Eternal  Soul,  be  praise!  374. 

Too  much  of  praise  for  the  quick,  pitiless  blow!  271. 

Too  soon?   But  heroes  always  die  too  soon!  453. 

Touch  not  with  dark  regret  his  perfect  fame,  135. 

True  love  to  liberty  is  never  foe,  372. 

*T  was  in  the  year  when  mutterings,  loud  and  deep,  ill. 

*T  was  said :  When  roll  of  drum  and  battle's  roar,  450. 

*T  was  Sunday  evening  as  I  wandered  down,  140. 

Two  heroes  do  the  world's  insistent  work,  339. 

Two  men  on  thrones,  or  crouched  behind,  301. 

Two  streams  of  music  beat  upon  my  heart,  452. 

Two  travelers  met  upon  a  plain,  26. 

Ungenerous!  353. 

Was  ever  music  lovelier  than  to-night  ?  386. 

Watchman!   What  seest  thou  in  the  New  Dawn  ?  422. 

We  are  alike,  and  yet,  —  O  strange  and  sweet!  30. 

We  have  come  nearer,  friend!  439. 

We  met  upon  the  crowded  way,  96. 

Wed,  thou,  with  sweet  and  silent  Death,  421. 

Were  true  hearts  bells,  all  breezes  would  be  bringing,  346. 

What  can  love  do  for  thee,  Love  ?  25. 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES  471 

What  do  you  know  of  me,  my  gentlest  one!  338. 

What  domes  and  pinnacles  of  mist  and  fire,  228. 

What  is  a  sonnet  ?   'T  is  the  pearly  shell,  134. 

What  is  her  playing  like?  118. 

What  is  her  playing  like?  119. 

What  makes  the  garden  grow,  456. 

What  shall  we  name  it,  311. 

What  strange,  fond  trick  is  this  mine  eyes  are  playing!  261. 

What,  then,  is  Life  —  what  Death?  181. 

What,  then,  shall  make  these  songs  of  mine  more  real,  381. 

What  think  you  of  the  Table  Round,  433. 

What  tragic  loss!  but,  O,  what  gain  sublime,  453. 

What  would  I  save  thee  from,  dear  heart,  dear  heart  ?  13. 

What  would  I  win  thee  to  ?  dear  heart  and  true !  13. 

When  at  life's  last  the  stricken  player  lies,  212. 

When  Christ  cried:  "It  is  done!"  176. 

When  fell  the  first  great  sorrow  of  my  life,  454. 

When  fell,  to-day,  the  word  that  she  had  gone,  331. 

When  from  this  mortal  scene,  207. 

When  I  am  dead  and  buried,  then,  80. 

When  I  was  a  child  joyfully  I  ran,  375. 

When  in  the  golden  western  summer  skies,  69. 

"When  in  the  morning  you  wake,"  443. 

When  in  the  starry  gloom,  50. 

When  late  I  heard  the  trembling  'cello  play,  257. 

When  late  in  summer  the  streams  run  yellow,  81. 

When  love  dawned  on  that  world  which  is  my  mind,  62. 

When  on  that  joyful  sea,  19. 

When  on  thy  bed  of  pain  thou  layest  low,  157. 

When  shall  true  love  be  love  without  alloy,  9. 

When  some  new  thought  of  love  in  me  is  born,  18. 

When  that  great  shade  into  the  silence  vast,  206. 

When  the  girls  come,  441. 

When  the  great  organs,  answering  each  to  each,  211. 

When  the  last  doubt  is  doubted,  28. 

When  the  last  movement  fell,  I  thought:  Ah,  me!  388. 

When  the  true  poet  comes,  how  shall  we  know  him  ?  132. 

When  the  war  fleet  puts  to  sea,  446. 

When  to  sleep  I  must,  66. 

When  with  their  country's  anger,  273. 

Where  led  the  bright  and  blameless  plume,  302. 

While  joy-bells  are  ringing,  279. 

While  others  hedged,  or  silent  lay,  304. 

White,  pillared  neck;  a  brow  to  make  men  quake,  170. 

Who  are  the  men  that  good  men  most  despise  ?  269. 

Who  builds  the  state  ?   Not  he  whose  power,  342. 

Winds  to  the  silent  morn,  234. 

Wise  Rembrandt!  thou  couldst  paint,  and  thou  alone,  244. 

With  wild  surprise,  126. 

Within  the  second  dolorous  circle  where,  26. 


47 2  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

Without  intent,  I  find  a  book  I've  writ,  381. 
Would  the  gods  might  give,  230. 

Ye  living  soldiers  of  the  mighty  war,  115. 
Years  have  flown  since  I  knew  thee  first,  32. 
Yes,  I  have  heard  the  nightingale,  233. 
Yes,  'tis  a  glorious  sight,  218. 
Yesterday,  when  we  were  friends,  153. 
Your  pretty  book  doth  please  me,  115. 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 

"A  barren  stretch  that  slants  to  the  salt  sea's  gray,"  5. 

"A  weary  waste  without  her,"  399. 

Absent  Lover,  The,  150. 

Actor,  The,  212. 

Adele  aus  der  Ohe,  119. 

After  Many  Days,  35. 

"After  sorrow's  night,"  91. 

After-Song:  "Through  love  to  light!  O,  wonderful  the  way,"  38. 

After-Song:  To  Rosamond,  189. 

Age,  and  the  Scorner,  345. 

"Ah,  be  not  false,"  223. 

"Ah,  near,  dear  friend,"  328. 

"Ah,  Time,  go  not  so  soon,"  153. 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey.    See  To  T.  B.  A.,  The  Poet's  Sleep,  The  Singing 

River. 

Alice  Freeman  Palmer,  331. 
All  in  One,  31. 
"And  were  that  best,"  9. 
"Angelo,  thou  art  the  master,"  249. 
Answer,  The,  224. 
Art,  125,  447. 
Art  and  Life,  41. 
"As  doth  the  bird,"  175. 
"As  soars  the  eagle,"  266. 
At  Four  Score,  101. 
At  Garfield's  Grave,  113. 
At  Luther's  Grave,  298. 
At  Niagara,  215. 
At  Night,  92. 
Austin  Dobson,  To,  309. 
Autumn  at  Four-Brooks  Farm,  285. 
Autumn  Dirge,  An,  213. 
Autumn  Meditation,  An,  64. 
Autumn  Trees,  327. 
Avarice,  400. 

"Back  from  the  darkness  to  the  light  again,"  94. 

Bards,  226. 

Bards  of  Britain,  451. 

"Because  the  rose  must  fade,"  231. 

Beethoven,  298. 

Beethoven,  Anger  of,  330. 

Before  Sunrise,  89. 


474  INDEX    OF  TITLES 

"Beyond  all  beauty  is  the  unknown  grace,"  78. 

"Beyond  the  branches  of  the  pine,"  64. 

Birds  of  Bethlehem,  The,  243. 

Birds  of  Westland,  The,  458. 

Birthday  Song,  A,  24. 

Blame,  401. 

Blameless  Knight,  The,  302. 

Blind  Poet,  A,  278. 

Body  and  Soul,  15. 

Bread  upon  the  Waters,  335. 

Brothers,  155. 

Builders  of  the  State,  342. 

Building  of  the  Chimney,  The,  82. 

C.  H.  Russell,  To,  349. 

"Call  me  not  dead,"  66. 

Call  to  the  Mountains,  A,  325. 

Calve,  451. 

"Came  to  a  master  of  song,"  225. 

Carl  Schurz,  392. 

CELESTIAL  PASSION,  THE,  39. 

'Cello,  The,  257. 

Charleston,  167. 

Charleston,  Farewell  to,  348. 

Child,  A,  218. 

Child-Garden,  The,  216. 

Christ,  The  Anger  of,  242. 

Christ-Child,  The,  217. 

Christmas  Hymn,  A,  49. 

Christmas  Tree  in  the  Nursery,  The,  126. 

City,  The,  112,  220. 

City  Club,  For  the,  349. 

City  of  Light,  The,  311. 

Cleveland,  Grover.     See  The  President,  Failure  and  Success,  The  Birds 

of  Westland. 

"Come  to  me  ye  who  suffer,"  8. 
Comfort  of  the  Trees,  The,  310. 
Compensation,  379. 
Condemned,  The,  173. 
Congress:  1878,  in. 
Conquered,  401. 
Contrasts,  148. 
Cost,  52. 
Cradle  Song,  93. 
Credo,  180. 
Crowned  Absurdities,  421. 

Dancers,  The,  156. 

Dark  Room,  The,  88. 

Day  in  Tuscany,  A,  295. 

"Day  unto  day  uttereth  speech,"  61. 


INDEX  OF   TITLES  475 

Dead  Comrade,  The,  116. 

Dead  Poet,  The,  300. 

Death  of  a  Great  Man,  On  the,  207. 

Dedicatory  Inscriptions,  318. 

Demagogue,  The,  303. 

Denial,  18. 

Departed  Friend,  To  a,  67. 

Desecration,  136. 

Desert,  The,  299. 

"Despise  not  thou,"  54. 

Destiny,  369. 

Doubter,  The,  245. 

Doubter's  Soliloquy,  The,  370. 

Drama,  The,  120. 

Drinking  Song,  106. 

E.  C.  S.,  To,  347. 

"Each  moment  holy  is,"  66. 

Early  Autumn,  436. 

Easter,  50. 

Edward  Everett  Hale,  451. 

Egypt,  299. 

Eleonora  Duse,  215. 

Elsie,  222. 

Emma  Lazarus,  157. 

Emma  Lazarus,  To,  392. 

Essipoff,  118. 

"Even  when  joy  is  near,"  265. 

Evening  in  Tyringham  Valley,  228. 

"Evening  Star,  The,"  67. 

"Fades  the  Rose,"  232. 

Failure  and  Success,  163. 

Fame,  209. 

Fantasy  of  Chopin,  A,  389. 

Fate,  94. 

Father  and  Child,  63. 

FIRE  DIVINE,  THE,  365. 

Fire  Divine,  The,  367. 

For  a  Fan,  125. 

For  an  Album,  122. 

For  the  City  Club,  349. 

For  the  Espousals  of  Jeanne  Roumanille,  of  Avignon,  279. 

For  the  Great  Pylons  of  the  Triumphal  Causeway,  316. 

For  the  Propylaea,  315. 

For  the  Stadium,  315. 

Francesca  and  Paolo,  26. 

Francesca  Mia,  345. 

Freed  Spirit,  The,  69. 

Friendship,  346. 

"From  love  to  love,"  420. 


476 


INDEX   OF    TITLES 


Garfield's  Grave,  At,  113. 

George  MacDonald,  393. 

Gift,  The,  151. 

"Give  thy  day  to  duty,"  350. 

Glave,  269. 

Glen  Gilder,  417. 

Good  Man,  The,  338. 

Grand  Jury,  Before  the,  403. 

Grant,  Burial  of,  115. 

"Gray  walls  of  the  garden,  The,"  431. 

Great  Citizen,  The,  332. 

"Great  nature  is  an  army  gay,"  170. 

GREAT  REMEMBRANCE,  THE,  191. 

Great  Remembrance,  The,  193. 

"H.  H.,"  140. 

Handel's  Largo,  211. 

Hast  thou  heard  the  Nightingale  ?  233. 

Hawthorne  in  Berkshire,  259. 

"He  knows  not  the  path  of  duty,"  37. 

"He  pondered  well,"  337. 

"Her  delicate  form,"  345. 

Hero  of  Peace,  A,  207. 

Heroic  Age,  The,  270. 

Hero's  Bride,  A,  453. 

Hesitation,  5. 

Hewitt,  Abram  Stevens.     See  The  Great  Citizen. 

Hide  not  thy  Heart,  168. 

Holy  Land,  53. 

Home  Acres,  324. 

Homestead,  The,  100. 

Hour  in  a  Studio,  An,  260. 

How  Death  may  make  a  Man,  224. 

"How  strange  the  musician's  memory,"  390. 

"How  to  the  singer  comes  the  song?  "  253. 

Hymn:  "God  of  the  strong,  God  of  the  weak,"  356. 

Hymn:  "Great  God,  to  whom  since  time  began,"  57. 

Hymn:  "To  Thee,  Eternal  Soul,  be  praise!"  374. 

"I  asked  you  to  read  my  poem,"  420. 

"I  care  not  if  the  skies  are  white,"  147* 

"I  count  my  time  by  times  that  I  meet  thee,"  32. 

"I  dreamed,"  419. 

"  I  know  not  if  I  lore  her  overmuch,"  4. 

"I  like  her  gentle  hand  that  sometimes  strays,"  4. 

"I  will  be  brave  for  thee,"  14. 

Identity,  373. 

"If,  One  Great  Day,"  457. 

HI  Tidings,  no. 

Illusion,  261. 


INDEX   OF    TITLES  477 


Impromptus  :  — 

A  Hero's  Bride,  453. 

A  Mother's  Picture,  453. 

A  Naval  Surgeon  of  the  War  for  the  Union,  452. 

A  Theme,  126. 

A  Warrior  of  Troy,  420. 

Age,  and  the  Scorner,  345. 

Art,  125. 

Bards  of  Britain,  451. 

Calve",  451. 

Crowned  Absurdities,  421. 

Edward  Everett  Hale,  451. 

Farewell  to  Charleston,  348. 

For  a  Fan,  125. 

For  the  City  Club,  349. 

Francesca  Mia,  345. 

Friendship,  346. 

"From  love  to  love,"  420. 

"Give  thy  day  to  duty,"  350. 

"Her  delicate  form,"  345. 

"I  asked  you  to  read  my  poem,"  420. 

In  a  Concert  Room,  452. 

"Life  is  the  hammer,"  344. 

Lyric  Lives,  453. 

Music  and  Friendship,  346. 

Nazimova,  420. 

New  Friends  and  Old,  452. 

"Not  wreaths  alone,"  349. 

On  a  Young  Hero,  453. 

Sacrilege,  421. 

Shadow  and  Sun,  452. 

"Tell  me  good-by,"  347. 

The  Christmas  Tree  in  the  Nursery,  126. 

"The  critic  scanned  the  poet's  book,"  344. 

The  Lonesome  Wild,  452. 

The  Obelisk,  421. 

"The  Pines,"  348. 

To  a  Southern  Girl,  125. 

To  C.  H.  Russell,  349. 

To  E.  C.  S.,  347- 

To  F.  F.  C.,  124. 

To  Jacob  A.  Riis,  346. 

To  "  Little  Lady  Margaret,"  421. 

To  One  who  praised  "  the  gay  life,"  453. 

To  T.  B.  A.,  125. 

To  the  Hero  of  a  Scientific  Romance,  421. 

To  William  Watson,  344. 

Two  Optimists,  350. 
In  a  Concert  Room,  452. 
"  In  a  night  of  midsummer,"  390. 
IN  HELENA'S  GARDEN,  429. 


478 


INDEX  OF    TITLES 


In  Helena's  Garden,  431. 

"In  her  young  eyes,"  153. 

IN  PALESTINE  AND  OTHER   POEMS,  237. 

In  Palestine,  239. 

In  Praise  of  Portraiture,  448. 

"In  that  dread,  dreamed-of  hour,"  233. 

"In  the  cities,"  404. 

"!N  THE  HIGHTS,"  321. 

"In  the  hights,"  323.' 

In  the  White  Mountains,  391. 

In  Times  of  Peace,  450. 

In  Wordsworth's  Orchard,  293. 

Inauguration  Day,  341. 

Indirection,  223. 

Indoors,  at  Night,  149. 

Indoors  in  Early  Spring,  285. 

Inscription  for  a  Tower  in  Florence,  280. 

Inscription  in  Rome,  An,  136. 

Inscriptions  for  the  Pan-American  Exposition  at  Buffalo,  1901,  315. 

Interlude:  "As  melting  snow  leaves  bare  the  mountain-side,"  29. 

Interlude:  "The  cloud  was  thick  that  hid  the  sun  from  sight,"  n. 

Interlude:  "The  sun  rose  swift  and  sent  a  golden  gleam,"  6. 

Invisible,  The,  368. 

Irrevocable,  230. 

"Is  hope  a  phantom?"  305. 

J.  R.  L.,  164. 

Janet,  307. 

"Jocoseria,"  137. 

John  Carman,  103. 

John  George  Nicolay,  310. 

John  Henry  Boner,  333. 

John  Malone,  397. 

John  Paul  Jones,  391. 

John  Wesley,  357. 

Josephine  Shaw  Lowell,  394. 

Karnak,  247. 

Keats,  135. 

"Keep  pure  thy  soul,"  229. 

Kelp  Rock,  215. 

L.  R.  S.,  To,  309. 

La  Salle,  341. 

Lady  to  a  Knight,  A,  305. 

Lament,  A.,  107. 

Largess,  149. 

Last  Flower  of  the  Garden,  The,  436. 

Late  Summer,  260. 

Law,  372. 

Leo,  154. 


INDEX   OF    TITLES  479 

Letter  from  the  Farm,  A.,  288. 

Life,  68. 

"Life  is  the  cost,"  171. 

"Life  is  the  hammer,"  344. 

Life-Mask  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  On  the,  117. 

"Light  lies  on  the  farther  hills,  The,"  327. 

"Like  the  bright  picture,"  254. 

Likeness  in  Unlikeness,  30. 

Lincoln,  Abraham.    See  On  the  Life-Mask  of,  To  the  Spirt  of,  The  Great 

Remembrance,  Under  the  Stars,  etc. 
Lion  of  Tyringham,  The,  437. 
Listening  to  Music,  19. 
Lonesome  Wild,  The,  452. 
Longfellow's  "Book  of  Sonnets,"  140. 
Lost,  336. 

"Lost  Leaders,"  397. 
Love  and  Death,  62. 
Love,  Art,  and  Time,  156. 
Love  grown  Bold,  6. 
"Love  is  not  bond  to  any  man,"  37. 
"Love  me  not,  Love,  for  that  I  first  loved  thee,"  14. 
Lover's  Lord  and  Master,  The,  23. 
Love's  Cruelty,  u. 
Love's  Jealousy,  16. 
Love's  Monotone,  17. 
Lowell,  205. 

Luther's  Grave,  At,  298. 
Lyric  Lives,  453. 
LYRICS,  71. 

MacDowell,  388. 

Madonna  of  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  52. 

Marble  Pool,  The,  432. 

Master-Poets,  The,  49. 

Memorial  Day,  114. 

Memory,  306. 

Memory  of  Rubinstein,  A,  210. 

Meridian,  227. 

Michael  Angelo's  Aurora,  297. 

Michael  Angelo's  Slave,  145. 

Midsummer  Meditation,  A,  174. 

Midsummer  Song,  A,  76. 

Mirror,  The,  30. 

Modern  Rhymer,  The,  141. 

Modjeska,  120. 

Monument  by  Saint-Gaudens,  A,  209. 

Moonlight,  146. 

Morning,  Noon,  and  Night,  60. 

Mors  Triumphalis,  45. 

Mother  and  Child,  330. 

"Mother  of  heroes,"  331. 


480 


INDEX  OF    TITLES 


Mother's  Picture,  A,  453. 

Motto  for  a  Tree-Planting,  307. 

Music  and  Friendship,  346. 

Music  and  Words,  128. 

Music  at  Twilight,  384. 

Music  beneath  the  Stars,  458. 

Music  in  Darkness,  328. 

Music  in  Moonlight,  386. 

Music  in  Solitude,  255. 

"My  love  for  thee  doth  march  Itee  armed  men,"  n. 

"My  songs  are  all  of  thee,"  35. 

Name,  A,  310. 

Napoleon,  164. 

Naval  Surgeon  of  the  War  for  the  Union,  A,  452. 

Nazimova,  420. 

Net,  The,  444. 

NEW  DAY,  THE,  i. 

New  Friends  and  Old,  452. 

New  Poet,  A,  334. 

New  Politician,  The,  304. 

New  Soul,  A,  229. 

New  Troubadours,  The,  135. 

New  World,  A,  no. 

New  Year,  228. 

Niagara,  At,  215. 

"Night  of  stars  and  dreams,  A,"  24. 

Night  Pasture,  The,  286. 

Night  Song,  A,  154. 

"Nine  years,"  93. 

"  '  No,  no,'  she  said,"  262. 

Noel,  244. 

Non  Sine  Dolore,  181. 

North  to  the  South,  The,  114. 

"Not  here,"  262. 

"Not  wreaths  alone,"  349. 

November  Child,  A,  92. 

"O  glorious  Sabbath  sun,"  307. 

"O,  love  is  not  a  summer  mood,"  36. 

"O  mighty  river,  triumphing  to  the  sea,"  34. 

"O  sweet  wild  roses  that  bud  and  blow!  "  22. 

Obelisk,  The,  421. 

Obscuration,  419. 

Ode:  "I  am  the  spirit  of  the  morning  sea,"  73. 

Ode:  "In  the  white  midday's  full,  imperious  show,"  185. 

Of  Henry  George,  269. 

Of  One  who  neither  Sees  nor  Hears,  278. 

Old  Faith,  The,  369. 

Old  House,  The,  409. 

Old  Master,  The,  297. 


INDEX  OF  TITLES  481 


On  a  Certain  Agnostic,  398. 

On  a  Portrait  of  Servetus,  54. 

On  a  Woman  seen  upon  the  Stage,  278. 

On  a  Young  Hero,  453. 

On  being  asked  for  a  Song,  308. 

On  reading  of  a  Poet's  Death,  332. 

On  the  Bay,  219. 

On  the  Death  of  a  Great  Man,  207. 

On  the  Life-Mask  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  117. 

'On  the  wild  rose  tree,"  77. 

'Once  only,"  17. 

'Once  when  we  walked  within  a  summer  field,"  18. 
One  Country  —  One  Sacrifice,  273. 

'One  deed  may  mar  a  life,"  230. 

'One  rose  of  song,"  396. 
Ottoman  Empire,  The,  246. 
Our  Elder  Poets,  139. 

Paderewski,  210. 

Parthenon  by  Moonlight,  The,  245. 

Passing  of  Christ,  The,  177. 

Passing  of  Joseph  Jefferson,  The,  351. 

"Pathetic  Symphony,  The,"  388. 

"Pines,  The,"  348. 

Pity  the  Blind,  400. 

POEMS  AND  INSCRIPTIONS,  283. 

Poet  and  his  Master,  The,  43. 

Poet's  Fame,  The,  129. 

Poet's  Protest,  The,  131. 

Poet's  Question,  A,  381. 

Poet's  Secret,  The,  380. 

Poet's  Sleep,  The,  399. 

Porto  Fino,  123. 

Portrait  of  Servetus,  On  a,  54. 

"Power  there  is,  A,"  256. 

Prelude  for  "A  Book  of  Music,"  382. 

Prelude:  "O  white  and  midnight  sky!   O  starry  bath!  "  41. 

Prelude:  "The  night  was  dark,  tho'  sometimes  a  faint  star,"  3. 

President,  The,  118. 

Prisoner's  Thought,  The,  172. 

Pro  Patria,  161. 

Proof  of  Service,  400. 

Recognition,  55. 

Reform,  112. 

Remembrance  of  Beauty,  254. 

Resurrection,  266. 

Rhyme  of  Tyringham,  A,  221. 

Riddle  of  Lovers,  A,  87. 

River,  The,  22. 

River  Inn,  The,  99. 


482 


INDEX   OF    TITLES 


Robert  Gould  Shaw,  267. 
Rosamond,  To,  189. 
Rose  of  Dream,  A,  440. 
"Rose-dark  the  solemn  sunset,"  234. 

Sacred  Comedy  in  Florence,  A,  296. 

Sacrilege,  421. 

Saint-Gaudens,  Augustus.    See  A  Monument  by  Saint-Gaudens,  Robert 

Gould  Shaw,  Under  the  Stars,  Music  beneath  the  Stars. 
Sanctum  Sanctorum,  150. 
Scorn,  269. 
Seasons,  The,  32. 
Serenade,  148. 
Shadow  and  Sun,  452. 
"Shall  we  not  praise  the  living?"  353. 
Shelley's  "Ozymandias,"  340. 
Sheridan,  158. 
Sherman,  160. 

Silence  of  Tennyson,  The,  206. 
Singer  of  Joy,  The,  335.  * 

Singing  River,  The,  454. 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  293. 
"So  fierce  the  buffets,"  339. 
Solace  of  the  Skies,  The,  454. 
"Something  missing  from  the  garden,"  434. 
Song:    'A  little  longer  still  in  summer  suns,"  453. 
Song:   'I  awoke  in  the  morning  not  knowing,"  445. 
Song:    'I  love  her  gentle  forehead,"  18. 
Song:    'If,  lest  thy  heart  betray  thee,"  305. 
Song:   'Love,  Love,  my  love,"  30. 
Song:   'Maria  Mia,"  418. 
Song:   'My  love  grew,"  23. 
Song:   'Not  from  the  whole  wide  world,"  31. 
Song:   'O  purer  far  than  ever  I!  "  445. 

Song:  'O  whither  has  she  fled  from  out  the  dawning  and  the  day  ? "  440. 
Song:   'The  birds  were  singing,"  21. 
Song:   'Years  have  flown,"  32. 
Song  for  Dorothea,  across  the  Sea,  A,  277. 
Song  of  a  Heathen,  The,  53. 
Song  of  a  Song,  The,  443. 
Song  of  Early  Autumn,  81. 
Song  of  Early  Summer,  A,  75. 
Song  of  Friendship,  A,  439. 
"Song  of  the  maiden  morn,  A,"  20. 
Song  of  the  Road,  A,  261. 
Song's  Answer,  The,  257. 
Songs,  231. 
Sonnet,  The,  134. 
Sonnet  of  Dante,  A,  134. 
Soul,  The,  61. 
Soul  lost,  and  found,  A,  263. 


INDEX  OF   TITLES  483 


"Sow  thou  sorrow,"  174. 

Sower,  The,  27. 

"Spare  me  my  dreams,"  374. 

Spirit  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  To  the,  163. 

Spring  Surprise,  327. 

Stairway,  The,  212. 

Star  in  the  City,  The,  145. 

Stratford  Bells,  292. 

Stricken  Player,  The,  212. 

"Strolling  toward  Shottery,"  291. 

Summer  begins,  291. 

"Summer's  rain  and  winter's  snow,"  33. 

Sun-Dial,  The,  434. 

Sunset  from  the  Train,  90. 

Sunset  Window,  The,  431. 

"Supper  at  Emmaus,  The,"  244. 

Sword  of  the  Spirit,  The,  271. 

Syria,  300. 

Table  Round,  The,  433. 

"Tell  me  good-by,"  347. 

Temple  of  Art,  A,  361. 

Temptation,  174. 

"The  day  began  as  other  days  begin,"  380. 

"The  north  star  draws  the  hero,"  268. 

"The  pallid  watcher  of  the  eastern  skies,"  12. 

"The  poet  from  his  own  sorrow,"  169. 

"The  poet's  day,"  253. 

"  The  smile  of  her  I  love,"  25. 

"The  woods  that  bring  the  sunset  near,"  89. 

"The  years  are  angels,"  153. 

Theme,  A,  126. 

"There  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun,"  10. 

"  There 's  no  place  like  the  old  place,"  41 2. 

"This  hour  my  heart  went  forth,  as  in  old  days,"  264. 

Thistle-Down,  21. 

"Thou  thinkest  thou  hast  lived,"  338. 

Thought,  A,  58. 

Three  Flowers  of  the  Garden,  435. 

"Through  all  the  cunning  ages,"  272. 

"Thy  lover,  Love,  would  have  some  nobler  way,"  16. 

"Thy  mind  is  like  a  crystal  brook,"  229. 

To  a  Departed  Friend,  67. 

To  a  Southern  Girl,  125. 

To  a  Young  Poet,  132. 

To  an  English  Friend,  138. 

To  Austin  Dobson,  309. 

To  C.  H.  Russell,  349. 

To  E.  C.  S.,  347. 

To  Emma  Lazarus,  392. 

To  F.  F.  C.,  124. 


484 


INDEX  OF    TITLES 


To  Jacob  A.  Riis,  346. 

To  L.  R.  S.,  309. 

To  "Little  Lady  Margaret,"  421. 

To  Marie  Josephine  Girard,  Queen  of  the  Felibres,  280. 

To  One  Impatient  of  Form  in  Art,  377. 

To  One  who  praised  "the  gay  life,"  453. 

"To  rest  from  weary  work,"  55. 

To  T.  B.  A.,  125. 

To  the  Hero  of  a  Scientific  Romance,  421. 

To  the  Poet,  378. 

To  the  Spirit  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  163. 

To  William  Watson,  344. 

"To-night  the  music  doth  a  burden  bear,"  150. 

Tool,  The,  303. 

Tower  cf  Flame,  The,  204. 

Tragedy  of  To-day,  A,  406. 

Traveler,  The,  7. 

Twelfth  of  December,  The,  158. 

Twenty-third  of  April,  The,  157. 

Two  Heroes,  339. 

Two  Optimists,  350. 

Two  Valleys,  218. 

Two  WORLDS  AND  OTHER  POEMS,  143. 

Two  Worlds,  145. 

Two  Years,  235. 

* 

Under  the  Stars,  424. 
Undying  Light,  69. 
Unknown,  The,  230. 
Unknown  Singer,  The,  387. 
Unknown  Way,  The,  26. 
Unreturning,  The,  235. 

/alley  of  Life,  The,  375. 
/alley  Road,  The,  258. 
/anishing  City,  The,  202. 
/eil  of  Stars,  The,  459. 
7enus  of  Milo,  The,  145. 
fiolet,  The,  78. 
Violin,  The,  33. 
Vision,  A,  274. 
Visions,  175. 
Voice,  The,  387. 
Voice  of  the  Right,  The,  437. 
Voice  of  the  Pine,  The,  59 
Voyager,  The,  106. 

Wagner,  388. 

War,  301. 

Warrior  of  Troy,  A,  420. 

Washington  at  Trenton,  208. 


INDEX    OF   TITLES  485 


Washington  Monument,  The,  342. 

Washington  Square,  219. 

Watchman  on  the  Tower,  The,  422. 

"We  met  upon  the  crowded  way,"  96. 

Weal  and  Woe,  36. 

Week's  Calendar,  A,  228. 

"What  can  love  do  for  thee,  Love  ?"  25. 

"What  makes  the  garden  grow,"  456. 

"What  man  hath  done,"  336. 

"What  would  I  save  thee  from?"  13. 

"What  would  I  win  thee  to?"  13. 

"When  love  dawned,"  62. 

"When  the  girls  come  to  the  old  house,"  441. 

"When  the  last  doubt  is  doubted,"  28. 

"When  the  true  poet  comes,"  132. 

"When  the  war  fleet  puts  to  sea,"  446. 

"When  to  sleep  I  must,"  66. 

"When  with  their  country's  anger,"  273. 

Where  Spring  began,  399. 

White  and  the  Red  Rose,  The,  96. 

"White  City,  The,"  201. 

White  Czar's  People,  The,  164. 

"White,  pillared  neck,"  170. 

Whisperers,  The,  402. 

Winding  Path,  The,  455. 

"Winds  to  the  silent  morn,"  234. 

Winter  Twilight  in  Provence,  A,  250. 

Wintry  Heart,  The,  232. 

With  a  Cross  of  Immortelles,  176. 

With  a  Volume  of  Dante,  281. 

Woman  seen  upon  the  Stage,  On  a,  278. 

Woman's  Thought,  A,  98. 

"Wondrous  Song,  A,"  333. 

Word  of  the  White  Czar,  The,  275. 

"Word  said  in  the  dark,  A,"  87. 

Words  in  Absence,  20. 

Words  without  Song,  7. 

World's  End,  The,  340. 

Written  on  a  Fly-Leaf  of  "Shakespeare's  Sonnets,"  9. 

"Yesterday,  when  we  were  friends,"  153. 
Young  Poet,  The,  80. 
Youth  and  Age,  133. 


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